the intovert

weeping willows wisp the rhythm of a thrush hermits song
the creek rants with a thousand voices all saying the same thing
in a different way in
insects dance in a trance that could only be a ritual
i suppose as a skeptic in speculation
that when they die its not traumatic
though i shall not smite
but ponder if something feels about me the way i do
and if i bear witness to my reflection surrounding me
is that re-assurring to ease the pain
when vegetables die they re-sead and spread nutrients
they have no faith, no expectations
but the intelligence to live in their environment
as thought, creates perception, driven by purpose
in and away from ignorance