I suppose I could work in a cube, but why would I do that?!

perhaps I will grow old
here, listening to the canopies
rustle their songs
the glowing orb pressing its warmth caressingly
along exposed skin and sweatered core
momentarily still
the leave litter scents
of regenerating earthen decay, drifts
the unborn buds hide yet a day or two more
soon to overwhelm with the rich textures of living
I may wait here
to grow old

not now or ever has fast appealed
cluttering days toiling at stones and shoulders to step upon
yet admittedly when fear enters in
trolling the base archive of Maslow’s need
revealing the toll of man-made-mana
mind burdened with the overlay of should dos
I grow old in rushed wakes ruins

so when I am able
lifting, sorting and shifting
minuet cosums within my microforest
up turned lips with glacial slow humming blinks, basking
momentary freedoms
I wait to grow graciously old
in these spaces