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It's not often they're called meadows any more,
but, when the sun lifts high above the waving grass,
and dew shimmers on the random daisy there,
what but meadow names such peaceful scenes ?

Solid and treasured, the faithfulness of friends,
what else but love can serve to name the steadiness?
A heart that sees the best will look beyond the stress,
accept the chink appearance, unexplained, displays.

They are still called friends if we accept the flaw,
blink at it, knowing we have weakness of our own.
The light of love still gleams if in ourselves,
the tendency to sense the slur is put away.

The meadow blooms with random daisies and wild rye,
while life's shared joys and sorrows wilt away or bloom.

08/03/2014 Carol Welch
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