Every morning I step under the arch, or sometimes roam the arbor,
I always find sunlight and windblown green matter
among wooded creatures, Gaia underfoot rising like
our own scent, robust and loamy, sans words
in this timeless traipse, shrunk
to the tiny infinite wound up
around me inside this funnel
where eddies ebb
without tide
but not I

Chagall 2017

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