The Tree
I gently guide my hands across the course texture of the bark
I smell the gum glue scent and from below, a dog made mark
I hear a weaver bird making it\'s nest amidst the rustling of the leafs
I long to hear the tree\'s voice, as is thought in Indian beliefs

The Rose
Jagged edges on a leaf, while silky smooth the petals are
In between my finger tips, which now bare a thorny scar
The petal slips an glides away, while the scent remains
One side, sweetest smell, the other, pricks and pains

The Grass
Fresh dew sprinkles upon my face as I feel the lushes grass
Blades between my fingers, tickles my feet and tickles my . . .
Rip out a handful to hear the tearing sound
Fresh cut grass and fresh damp ground

The Wind
Natures turn to caress my skin, cool fresh air strokes my face
Standing still arms stretched out, as it changes direction and pace
It brings with it aromas from the places around
It whistles gently, with a soothing sound

My Self
I do not know the colour of my skin
Nor have I ever seen my kin
All these things you take for granted, your mind is free
Yet I enjoy them to the fullest, even though I cannot see...