A fox sits in the forest at the foot of my house.
Each morning
she intertwines with the sunrise, materialising through graceful leaps
It leaves me breathless;
all I can do is bathe in awe.

One morning I extend my hand
and she engulfs me, gracefully
I become whole again. We dash through trees
and fields and meadows

She dances, and leads me gently to the tips of the earth
Her breath resounds against hillsides, and as I fall
I catch almost a glimmer of
light-dipped roses, and golden daffodils.

My birds,
a winsome kaleidoscope of colour and sound
I stand within myself in my clearing, a tiny, circular garden
filled simply with encroaching trees and
a circle of pale concrete underfoot

Marred only
with snaring daisies, quiet
allure, and I take the time to romance the colours I behold so dearly
as they swim through my blurred, jarring vision and as I
melt wholly into the river beside me.

My garden is the only good left in this world
especially now that I have left it.