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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #1599485
A naturist's kinship with a rotting log puts life, death and purpose in perspective.

Ragged log near wounded tree,
sogged by time, forgotten
amid your rising kin,
you serve no purpose.

Or, so it seems

on the surface.
Wasting with crumbled
innards and a thin
papery husk,
meld with the soiled earth
that bore you.

Rear the unforgiving
under your moss blanket,
calm like the maggots
nestled in your flesh.

Die; I’ll wait.

Die and cede,
bleed ugly age
into beauteous truth,
your wisdom,
so they won’t suffer
like you did, like you do.

Your bones they harvest.

The white sheet
lets no one remember
you were here, yet
the howls of November
sing your departed song.
Now I'm cold like you.

Winner of the September, 2009 Shining Star award from Circle of Sisters and "Rising Stars Shining Brighter

Merit Badge in Nature
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2009 Quill Award for Best Nature for  [Link To Item #1599485] ; see  [Link To Item #1376303]  for more information

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