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Across the meadow
  there grows a proud oak
  listing quietly,
    she watches over summer children
    singing softly
  a chorus of colourful feathers
    and cicada calls.

Across the meadow
  where lilacs dance
  to rhythms of noon shade,
    pouring na´ve abundance into
    every shadow,
  small hands fold black-eyed Susans
    for a royal gown.

In counterpoint
  with the rising song
  dangling from the branches,
    lightly slipping from leaves to sky
    and back again,
  a playful voice rhymes the passing
    call of a wood thrush.

Across the meadow
  where on crossed legs
  a child rests, and lifts her heart,
    to the restless breathing of earth
    and heaven,
  blue eyes dance under golden curls, these
    simple rites of love.

So into sunshine
  she sings her polyphony
  breaking a cappella solitude
    by the abundance of a meadowlark's
  The old oak loves her child, as
    just a proud oak can.

And back again
  so loves this child,
  catching a whisper's thought
    that by the sway of these branches
    in metronome
  comfort, she finds a mother's smile
    without regret or pause.

A meadow knows
  what we may only dream,
  that here is true happiness,
    as could neither be seen nor bought,
    but dwells
  somewhere across the sweet grass
    in a child's heart

and her tree.

© hok, September 22, 1993