Moss, emerald green,
Behind the purple flower is seen.
The purple flower is my highest delight.
But I’ll rest upon the moss tonight.
Everything is a mixture.
Death plus warmth is temperature.
Outer space would freeze earth’s air
Despite an earth-sized solar flare.
What does nature want? Is she certainty
And science? Remove infinity
From nature, if she’s offended.
Nature on nature is not what I intended.
We happen to be alright, here,
Where stars are few, on this blue sphere.
What’s too hot, on a scale of one to ten?
Are you making nature the answer, again?
Scientists say that nature
Is the purple flower.
But is temperature loss
Like a field of moss?
What is beyond certainty, sir?
Moss? Stone? Her?