on the ridges of my mind,
i found that meadows really do become waves
and they ripple as the breeze passes through
without even a breath of apology

and though there are no fish in these waves
there are crickets and hoppers and bugs and beetles
that balance precariously upon the eaves of grass
that tickle your knees as you wade through

and if your feet are bare then you'll feel the dirt
-mud, if it rained the day before-
shift and sigh as you tiptoe past;
they crackle and roll as you tiptoe past

and kneel down and whisper your apologies
before you pluck the wildflower from its roots
be sure that you croon a lullaby, a sweet lullaby,
so that it remembers no pain as it falls asleep;
only an unpleasant dream.