The forest can't decide if
It's inside or outside me,
If I'm a hermit within
Its umbrageous multitudes,
Or it's the dendritic sparks
That perform this sense of me.
None of the above. The woods
Are neither mind nor cosmos.
The woods are the mystery
Anything's like this at all.
I am a slight breeze whispered
Through a few of the branches
Can't know what I know they are.
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