This is the meadow. <br />It slopes from bright South <br />down to the West and North <br />from the primroses in the southern hedge <br />down through the violets, sometimes white, <br />in the western hedge tipping down <br />to the rabbit warren and <br />down to the wild garlic <br />in perpetual shadow in the northern ditch <br />shouting among the nettles <br /> <br />this is where, each morning in May, <br />the world is made anew; <br />there are more wild flowers in this meadow <br />than you’ll ever see together – <br />cowslips, oxslips, pink mayflowers, <br />wild orchids, red scabious, <br />yellow celandines, clover, cuckoo-pint... <br /> <br />and as the sun curves slowly round, <br />and the shadow moves aside, <br />the flowers, saturated with the morning dew, <br />shine each with a crystal drop <br /> <br />and it’s not until you step among them <br />and a small cloud of moths and butterflies rise up, <br />that you see the meadow is so full of life, <br />sipping its daily bread of dew <br />and in an hour or so, pollen, honey; <br /> <br />every day this meadow <br />invites, invents anew <br />words fresh as dew – <br />joy, constancy, innocence, <br />love, freedom, rest, <br />wonder, praise, and gratitude – <br /> <br />if every day this miracle, <br />what of tomorrow <br />and the heart?<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0010-a-day-a-meadow-a-miracle/
