An ambiance persists just like a mist upon the water.
Yet with the fading light my might shall enter into passing.
Mowed down into the stubborn roots that still refuse to falter.
Like ambi-on upon the lawn we planted in the summer.
So with the roots, some sun, some juice, and soil to encounter.
Then reaching down, within, again, extending through horizons.
An anchor set, once toes are wet, but never to be lifted.
A future way may try some day if I should be so gifted.
Heard from the weeds, in awe, indeed, at all she has to offer.
A perfect lawn can carry on without presumed perfection.
It reaches full without control but rather understanding.
Impaired by care and empathy, I passively aspire.
