Roseau pensant

Sphagnum chorused as I sat.
Otherwise it was still, save a breath from the south.
Shy campanas rang in silent profusion. To senesce and disperse their contents.
At first, I did not understand this life of solitude and silence.  Insentience.
And then, clarity. For I am Pascal’s Roseau pensant, uniquely capable of reflecting on such a thing.
To be like Foamflower.
To alternate between life and death, with neither worry nor distraction. Without feeling.
Blessing or curse?
I do not know.
Foam
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