A flowering Meadow stretches
Across the rolling plains,
Shining in the sun without flaw
And gently waving in the breeze.
It blooms in great bursts of color,
Following the seasons as any meadow does.
Brown during the winter, it comes back to life in the spring.
Not all of the flowers remain, but most
Are reborn or renewed.
Some days, the meadow is untouched.
Other days, children run through it,
Gathering flowers to take to their mothers, to their homes,
Maybe to feed to ants,
Maybe to simply admire before sending them into the breeze.
It is okay; the children
have no idea the pain they cause when they rip the flowers up.
What matters is that they are happy
With the flowers they bring with them.
Some days, people simply
Come to look at the field,
To watch the flowers grow, seedlings
Popping out of the soil,
Silently sprouting tiny leaves
And soaking in the air of a world at peace.
They simply watch, taking it in,
Smiling at the distance sunset
As it weaves into the blanket of wildflowers covering the soil.
They could never have the same peace with themselves,
But they don't mind sharing it here.
Some days, however,
Once in a very long while,
Trucks come through the meadow,
Plowing everything down.
People abuse the land,
Stealing it away from it's multi-hued owners and converting it into
Something of their own.
They take and take and take
Until nothing remains.
A reaped, raped meadow stands alone,
Dusty and barren,
As the sun sets over a solemn graveyard of millions.
The life once enjoyed, once admired,
Once spreading for miles is just...
Gone.
Forever, it seems.
The ground grows cold, lifeless,
And whatever seeds land there die.
Year after year, endless winter persists,
Earth yearning to burst forth in glory,
But lacking strength, lacking energy,
Falling into disuse.
Until a fateful, warm day.
Until one day, someone comes along
With a kind, sympathetic heart,
And looks out on the desolate fields
To see a glimmer of what once was.
To smile as they imagine one,
Just one tiny patch of wildflowers
Growing in the middle of the field
Like hope on the battlefront.
What would that look like, eh?
To glance out the window to see
Not overgrazed, overfarmed land,
But a field bursting with color,
With soft light, bees, butterflies,
Daisies, bluebonnets, yarrow, winecups?
To see a field drenched,
Not in an endless bath of dust,
But in buckets and buckets of green,
In new, beautiful life and peace?
They gather seeds and compost,
And they go outside,
Let the dry soil fall through their fingers
In a waterfall of silent suffering,
Suppressed, yearning to be free.
They smile,
Wipe their hands on their shirt,
And get busy.
And they create new life
From what seemed like a wasteland.
They nourish it,
Feed it,
See it for what it could be,
Until one day,
After years of fierce winds, tears,
Great gales and frustration.
One victorious day,
They watch as a tiny blade,
Jabbing in victory through the breastplate the of cracked earth,
Rises from the ground.
Others come to the field as it grows in earnest,
Tiny, feral stalks poking through hardened, cold ground and
Rooting themselves deep in
Newly rich soil.
Millions of hands touch the ground, meeting it, tilling it, healing it
Until it fills up, churning with new zeal,
With incredible hope for what it
Has been waiting for in its years
Of endless winter.
People watch as it takes itself over, becoming life itself once more, becoming a meadow, a heart beating wildly within a green hill.
Healers even plant new things there,
Laying down fruit trees,
Shrubs,
Butterfly bushes,
New, gorgeous additions to
Fallowed land growing anew.
They promote life, old and new,
And stand back, hands adjoined,
As it soars off on its own.
With radiant pride, they watch it
Outlive them,
Outgrow them.
Though great pain caused great loss,
And intense suffering,
Incredible love made the green Hill's
Heart beat once more,
Made the flowers open,
Nourished the trees until they
Could live on their own,
And joined the meadow in watching the sun set over the great horizon.
Although the meadow was dead,
A dark brown wasteland,
Someone saw it's potential
And brought it back to life.
Once others saw what the savior was
Trying to do,
They joined them with garden tools Raised high.
They saw the first blade of grass, and they wanted to see more.
They saw potential in tiny improvements,
And knew what beauty could become of the little green stalks.
In the future, the meadow
Might be cut down,
Razed clean,
Doused in death until hope seems
Pointless,
But there will always be someone,
Some hopeful fool,
Who will bring it back.
Just as someone will bring you back.
Just as someone will see your potential.
Just as people will rally around you
To raise you up,
To nourish those tiny green blades,
And bring back the flowers.
People will try again and again,
Year after year,
To rouse you from your endless winter
And bring back the life they once saw in you.
They will try until your grass begins to grow, and they will continue after that.
And one day,
You will be full to the brim with
Colors, with flowers and fruits
Bursting forth into the sun.
You will share peace with others
As you watch the sun set on your horizon and the stars come out in silver clusters.
One day, you will be able to loan
Yourself to the children that pass,
To those who need your peace,
And want to share it with others.
Once you have grown enough,
You will be able to give some of yourself away.
Not too much, but enough to sustain them, to push them to grow their own
Bright blossoms
And find peace in what they have made, in the warmth of the sun.
Even when your flowers fade, there will always be someone,
Someone off to the side,
In a little house,
Who sees your beauty,
Notices it,
Appreciates it,
Loves it,
And does not want to see it fade away.
There will always be someone who,
When great pain chips away at you,
Sows seeds of love and regrows you.
That's what love does.
It fills the holes that pain leaves,
Gets your heart to beat once more,
And gently persuades flowers to push from under the skin of your cold surface.
Love regrows you,
And your meadow will always return in full.
One day,
After as many winters as it takes,
You will step into the sun
Even if it is one toe,
On stalk of grass,
One tiny smile at a time.
You will grow in great,
Green,
Budding,
Flowering love.
