A fancy or a feeling?

The sky turns grey
with the promise of rain
and my mind turns
to the deep green moss
by the dark elder trees
where dwell
creatures most fanciful.
And I stand thus
face tilted, eyes closed,
nostrils flaring
upon a deep breath.
And in it I receive
that promise
now heavy upon the wind
that runs through the leaves,
that rustle and shiver
in anticipation.
And I stand thus
arms aloft, limbs entangled
root for root,
shiver for shiver,
my soul expanding
to encompass it all
until I disappear
into that promise.
Time stands still.
There is no beginning
and no end.
Only a continuation.

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