to feel small
          dwarfed by a single star
          daily distance
          made meaningless

          to need not
          this, that, these foolish things
          air, food, water...
          a blade of grass

          to yearn so
          for simple things, as if
          life could ever
          be simpleness

          this rough wood
          will keep me dry for now
          and will outlast
          my peasant flesh

          I'll rest here
          where waters wash away
          one weary world
          with tenderness

          8/15/02 - 3 AM

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© Huw Powell
printed 28 March 2024

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