The Human in Nature

By Marisol
Aspen trees all scattered at random growing dainty spear-shaped leaves.
The thin barks wearing a sheer layer of white ash easily snatched away like makeup.
In contrast with deep black eyes that pop out from the pleasant aspen tree.
She is watching.
The desert is so draining and tiresome.
Even with the scorching golden sun, she cracks a smile in the dry desert sand.
Her smile shifts being reshaped by a swift gust of wind.
Green healthy leaves expand through the jungle along with the sturdy vines and compact
bushes.
Cool damp jungle soil nourishing the roots that give life to these plants.
Composing her thick tangled hair where crawling critters settle at home.
Rushing crystal currents split all throughout hugging the circumference of the world.
This is her blood providing life to those who live on her.
She never stops providing even when humankind has worn out so many of her features.
Mother nature is her name, how generous she is.
____________________

I am
By Marisol
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
I seek to see who I truly am, becoming lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
Depending on myself instead of being tossed,
All these emotions mostly throes
And yet I am, and live—no matter the cost

Into the wilderness using the senses of sight, sound, feel, taste, and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where I finally see the joys,
A strong connection to my soul redeems;
Showing me the worst and the best
Leaving my aching curiosity to rest.

Individualism, the act of self-reliance

Being able to think freely without the influence of others breaking down your identity
Nature, a place to observe and an opportunity to escape the darkness of society,
A place to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
I am
By John Clare (for reference)
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me as a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—as vapors tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod

A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.