Focusing on a giant green pepper,

Feeling the muscular folds 

Rumple into deep green and black channels,

Like the gyrification of an exhausted 

And diseased brain.

Texture is the skin of the world and

Our birthright is to feel the history of the earth,

Tactilely reading plutonic rock

With our bare hands.

Touching a soft carpet of moss

Growing next to a summer stream,

We remember there is tenderness.

Laying down 

In an open field of grass,

In a primal nest,

We are returned to our mother,

Returned to the mind of the cosmos,

Returned to the feeling of being alive.