I can still feel the trees,
the moist rush of breeze
through the porous leaves –
sweetened by stomata.
I can still smell the ground.
That smell – of grass;
Of each shoot sharpened
scent – piercing olfactories
that no longer function.
There is no grass –
to tickle jaded lips,
no trees –
bagged leaves;
The tears of a timid toddler,
in the pants of these.