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From the sixth floor balcony of my studio, I sit, gazing northwest 
at watery currents of a lake lapping toward shores of greenery,  
sunlit rays sparkle and dance across the waves like playful nature 
sprites. Cawing crows resonate urban melodies in late afternoon  
air as a brisk gale billows forth, shaking leaves of cherry, oak  
and evergreen. Echoes of laughing children reach my ears near the 
shore, their small wiry forms obscured by patches of spruce, and I 
forget for the span of a blink the poverty-stricken woes of these 
surroundings, my dark eyes mesmerized by captivating scenery. 
Drawing in oxygen, welcome breaths encase my lungs, then I catch the 
thick grime-choke squall of diesel exhaust from the parking lot, as 
a semi-engine issues an arrogant mechanical bellow. Nostrils aflare 
my psyche's snapped back to twenty-first century reality, that writing 
contest I missed the deadline for, poetry reading circuits, science  
and fiction, rent and bills to pay with my day job, proletariat taxi 
driver blues in the wake of questing for higher education. Kali-Yuga 
iron age struggle for victory. I'll survive, manage somehow. Do what 
tho wilt may be the whole of the law, but sometimes you have to work 
your ass off to get divine inspirations accomplished. Third generation 
of Mother Russia born in this country, I honor my roots through blood, 
sweat, tears and toil. Even in the ghetto, lilacs still bloom, ravens 
cackle out their songs and rejoice. For nature is life, all artists 
are bestowed with the power to enchant, to remind one of a steadfast 
creed: When fueled and forged of creative fires, Ideals are bullet 

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The following comments are for "Nature is Life"
by Tigerlily

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