Serpentine slithering of vines and streams;
underbrush steals atop wandering path;
footsteps echo muted, eaten by the green.
Swirling lines in crystal waters beckon—
turbidity radiating from the entrance
of darkly featured amphibians.
Cocked heads and curious eyes
gaze upon twisting branches above
cautious for what they conceal.
I am Lincoln's Heaven.
I am lit from the inside.
Warm your face in my honeysuckle glow.
Raise your altar in my fields.
Heed only the seasons and reap your fill.
I will spin you lullabies,
long after you have left.
Once, my woods would break your back.
Now you scratch mine with hoes and plows.
But leave me a space to stretch my branches,
let the wild tendrils unfurl.
My green approaches, encroaches,
filling your stomach with my visceral stones.
Home tastes sweet as summer fruit,
when you name me and know
the land owns you.
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