Beyond the house stood half a tree - cleaved in twain, robbed of symmetry; leaning like a wind-swept hero, it could still shade a reverie.
Wind-Swept Hero [Rubāʿī]
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Sitting on cold, volcanic rock upon a stormy shore, Watching waves crash, hearing naught but wind, and crying for more in a scream that cannot be heard over nature's harsh din as I feel the snap of gusty wind, through cloth so thin that it can't hold back nature's force to draw the heat from bone, and, feeling under this black sky, I am now all alone.
The hardy Himalayan nettle stings. It felt like punching piles of jellyfish. The slightest brush feels like a snapped bowstring. But the balm of time bowstrings quickly bring. The nettle's cure proved far more standoffish. The hardy Himalayan nettle stings. Two days on, the nettle still sent its ping. My hand numb like I'd fondled Fugu fish. That slightest brush felt like a snapped bowstring. I put my useless limb in a web sling. Not really, but it did hurt fiercely-ish. That hardy Himalayan nettle stings. Oh! of such agony Divas do sing. Not really, but it was unpleasant-ish. The slightest brush felt like a snapped bowstring. Stabbed by roadside nettle in Darjeeling is a fate upon no one I would wish. The hardy Himalayan nettle stings. The slightest brush feels like a snapped bowstring.

moss grows on granite;
nature swallowing gravestones
and erasing names
A sprout sprouts from the dirt. Above, dead leaves keep the tender leaf cool & moist. Below, worms churn the soil -- churn and aerate. Fungi decompose the lowest leaf layer, turning it into nutrients for the sprout. I'm tapped into all that magic from afar: -creation & destruction, feeding into each other -energy becoming life, life becoming matter, matter that - in turn - becomes energy. If there's a forest, I am the forest. I'm life and energy & death and decomposition... all in due time.