If it only could happen, that during this pause,

we listen (when humanity withdraws)

to birdsong, quiet, the howl and the breeze,

and know Earth as priceless, and everyone sees

From moss, to fern, to loftiest pine

the sinuous dance of the clambering vine

the scaly, the shelled, the mushroom and mold,

the bee and the salamander, fragile and cold.

Could this be the day we find ourselves able

to set down our plates, step away from the table

The feasting is over, we’ve all had our fill

and Life’s story, unfinished, flourishes still.

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