My Mind is a meadow

The clouds come back, with the rain,

And as it pelts the treetops,

And works its way down to the earth’s floor,

Where my spirit resides,

I sigh with the knowledge that I can weather the storms,

And accept the gift.

Because the rain is no longer acidic,

The wild beasts are no longer rabid for my blood.

The thistle no longer cuts and thrashes.

The wasps have lost their appetite for chaos.

The sun no longer bites at my pearled skin.

I’ve never been this beautiful before.

So many years to grow my piece of earth.

My mind is a meadow.

Butterflies in sunflower yellow, shimmering sea blue and electric orange.

Bees work happily and steadily in my glorious wildflowers.

Fowl and fawn lay and play willfully on the soft floor underneath the shade of the trees.

The sounds of wind and song of birds punctuate the air.

I can separate the unbearable from the comfort,

The wretched turned divine.