There is moisture in the airThe cone of nature that lingers
The spirit of ancient wanderers
Ripples through the knots of land
Each placid landscape reveals
Open terra firma of purity
Away from the urban aridness
The soul of the physical plane stays
And in that gentle serenity
Opportunity sits patient
To capture the mark of the land
And revel in that mutually reachable vista.
A friend of mine recently mentioned how the air in the local area is much more moist than that of urban areas, and the poem just grew from there.
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