You feel gratitude for taking a walk
 in the meadow, like a brown bee drifting, 
 to shun the fragrance of 5G networks—
 for the grass blades’ tenderness and caring.
 For the chance to fall with pale pink petals,
 lie in the clearing like a drunken cork,
 lie there long enough that, from your nostrils,
 some lonely spirit sluggishly creeps out 
 and stares at an ambulance speeding past. 
 Its siren echoes inside your thorax,
 an empty goblet of delicate glass
 to store love and death: Nature’s paradox.
 You appreciate the sunlight that slants
 through the squirrel tails and air-drying pants.