I walk in to the garden
A man
In clothing and footsteps
And thought

And then as the banks
Of perennial leaf
Touch my check,
Reach to meet

My enquiring hand,
And as my eye,
Like foraging bee
Dips and inspects,

And my ears,
Drawn to perceive
The wood pigeons
Breathing symphonies.

And as my nose
Catches strands
Of scent upon the breeze,
I change

From the modern, disinterested man
To the lover
Of my brother the leaf
And my friends

The birds and insects,
Quick-winged under foliage
And shadow
And proud to own the branch

And scrump the flower heads.
And thus I become
The green thing,
Half man, half herb,

Wishing for the heady scents
Of earthen loam
And soil must
And coolness of the mother,

Where the flesh of my heart
Might be lain in a hollow
To absorb the deep nutrient
And feel the root of forever.

 Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016