There at the edge of a wide green meadow,
set back just out of sight of a side road
under the cloak of an old oak’s shadow,
where the bramble vines creep out from the wood
and the fragrant wildflowers show their blooms
at the mouth of a hidden flowing spring,
their petals daubed with splashes of color
and with the delicate mist of the dew,
with the short, sweet chirping of the sparrows
echoing through the low hanging branches,
and the soft murmured droning of the bees
rising and falling with their passing flight
I shall sit on the back porch and listen
to the last falling drops of this spring rain
and watch, as the water starts to recede,
soaking into the planted beds and pots,
thinking of time as a season of change,
and each moment a small drop in the sea
that takes in all things in its churning wake
and leaves each of us just where we should be.
14 MAR 2003
