Seasons skip, the foxgloves refuse.
An array is imminent, they have learned the wall
but not the sun; elegance but no scent.
A small buff moth is thrown
to the cool breeze, lost nomad seeking shelter
dances into the shadows;
no charisma without light.
Tomorrow the sky may shimmer
as foxgloves yawn to the warmth, sunkissed silhouettes
caressing the wall like rain.
Everything around us will remind us of just how glorious all life is, how every living organism depends on another ... all can change, be affected by the elements one on another. Precious nature relies on our protection.
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