29. BEING PROSAIC
Write a prose poem.
These days life's the most imminent. The way to work fragrant of blossom, which, sadly, descends after two days of teasing nostrils. It is soon replaced by juicy grass, silly leaves madly unfolding their damp surfaces to the sun, or just winds coating my forehead like furry hat, though. Some days before I stupmed upon lumps of muddy soil, the scarf choking my throat, unable to believe that this miraculous gift will win over the oblivion of trees. But there I am, walking, legs some decade younger refuse to carry me depressionward, blusterously mocking the gravity. Smell, sight, touch, hearing, I'm even able to taste life in bloom when I stick out the tongue. I keep it out, regardless how many passers-by will reveal their sardonic faces. Let them laugh - I choose life.