• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 11
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So I fell asleep and dreamed

the dead world once more green:
Burgeoning fern fronds
carpet the forest floor.
Bright fish pour into ponds
and burbling streams.
I wander wide where
morning mist steams

over tall grasses
and the very air
is thick as
the fecund scent
of rich black loam—
this world meant to be our home.