White Biocentrism

When walking Nature
I talk to myself
then listen for replies
snail on a shale-stone shelf
riverside.
Soon, surfacing clear as spearpoint sun
hunting moon-chilled water still on dead-run
murmurs of why I am here, or anyone:
the Purpose of life is not written down
but by gifted senses yearly sifted from celestial ground--
leaves like rain dimple snow-faced Autumn soil
and crumple to grain in a glove-covered hand;
the love-drunk melody of birds spurs blushing Spring to uncoil
distilling belief in the mind of man;
Winter-coated stones and stems nest on scavenged passion
all practice but few understand;
Summer wind casually hints to figure out in carefree fashion
what roots see, where trails climb, whispers wait for chance
that mates starry-eyed heart-n-sigh by lakes of sunscaped tree
or weeps witness to any of this light-laced in lunar simplicity.

Great poetry, Ray. Very well done.

A thumbs up is certainly deserved, at least!

Wow, another good one. Keep them coming.

Great epithets you are using, Ray! To tell you the truth, when I am reading a poem I pay most of my attention to epithets as if they are sophisticated then it usually means that the poet is very talented