The meadow

Cut down,
even as they raise me
and in remembrance
they’ll bow their heads
to praise me.

Far better to bloom
in May, maybe June
and rest for the Summer
before the Winter strikes
with its terrors.

There is a shrillness to the
winds that scream,
I hurry on to hibernate
and dream
of Spring again,
the touch of gentle rain
to be raised again,

the cycle goes on.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.