A world lives in the meadow.
Flowers open their eyes to the sky
whether or not the sun shines.
The stray tree houses the busy bird
and it does not betray her.
When trampled, grass pushes up
on elbows, stands, spreads
his arms, touched and touching
the living and the dead.
The meadow’s harmony
is as alluring as a flame.
After a fire feasts
the meadow settles into earth
then rises like the sun.
It does not point a finger
at the stray match.
Why does man weigh his mistakes
on a scale of love? We fill
one side with blame and the other
with excuse, then choose to leave
when anger settles into stony weight.
And when we leave, we move
to another world where windows
stare, doors ignore, and concrete
covers trampled feelings.
Alone, we turn toward the wind,
stroll in the mist, lay on the grass.
All for the solace of touch.
When loneliness licks the soul
we push up on elbows, lift our faces
and beg the sun to rise.
Some stand and spread their arms
in the cold, dream of the embroidery
of love. Others flee to other worlds
for warmth, and if not found
they settle on a street
where nothing blooms.
— t. l. cummings