field sarpedon Flowers, scattered with an Open pool reflection, Several frogs gently hopping From land to liquid and back. She cannot help but touch and Sniff each perfection Of seven thousand varieties Filling her vision It's not any individual part, But the totality of the Interaction, gathering Her senses and tossing them Back, again and again. The walk, the creaking, Wooden fence that lines her Territory, nothing foreboding But just a gentle reminder Of her chosen bounds for the day And the difficulty in walking-- There is no path, so treading Necessarily disturbs the Natural grounds. But what good is nature If it isn't to be explored And enjoyed? So she settles, and sits By the pond shore Contemplating about the Lonely tree in the field, Whose reflection shone in Soft ripples approaching Her sandals, but not quite Making it 020726 what's it to you? who go blather from