Rising sun through yellowing walnut
          and cottonwood.
Aroma of campfire pine.
Conversation of squirrels and birds.
I do not understand the attraction of
Television and empire:
Like sex or baklava,
However enticing, a life of nothing but
Seems to me tedious and indigestible.
Purple asters opening to morning warmth
Noruish my soul. What is life for?
Is warmth and fragrance of my campfire
Worth the blades of grass and mallow it
          kills?
It feels so to me, as a poem feels
Worth the bit of tree the paper eats to
          write on.
I'll die too one day, not a terror nor a
          mistake,
But reason to ask what nourishes life's
          soul
That when it's done and while it lasts
I turn to rising sun through season's
          changing colors
Knowing, spontaneously to give thanks
          for the day.