August 17

So much going on inside my head – but not in the meadow.

In the meadow there are thick air and thick grasses and some brambles

and a bumper crop of Queen Anne’s lace.

I have in the last day become a bundle of worries and self-recrimination,

but what I want to become is a meadow.

I want to be a meadow, cricket-singing, blackbird-singing, breeze-on-grass-singing.

I want to be a meadow with small blackberries and day’s-eyes and black-eyed Susans and goldenrod.

I want to be a meadow – the meadow isn’t even remotely waiting. It just is.

To the meadow, I am a fast-moving visit.

To the forest, the meadow is a gap that grows and will close again soon.

To the valley, the forest is a good companion, but a little hasty.

To myself, I am…. and I waited for an insight. I waited for meaning and good thoughts. They didn’t come. To myself, I am a burden right now. A tired, sleepless burden.

And then the magic came.

To the dogs, I am thrower-of-frisbees and cuddler. Those are good things to be.