0010 A Day, A Meadow, A Miracle

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