Among the thistles and sprays,
There we lose ourselves, Among the wild trumpets In the fields, the whispers, Of tangled roots, we find. The dance of sunflowers sways—
To the pulse of the wind, And the cloud’s flight, Reigning above green valleys. This is home,
Where colors meet in song, And the unruly glow of blossoms Over spills into laughter, The harmony of nature, The echo of being—a breath. Where we sing back, embraced, Infinite.

• Margaret Atwood