The Meadow

The sun shines bright upon the vast verdant meadow

Studded with wildflowers waving in the breeze.

In the stillness, all that can be heard is the rustle of the wind in the tall grass,

The hum of the honeybee as it bustles from a daisy to a dandelion,

And the blue bird singing from the oak tree, which protrudes from the sea of grass.

The entire meadow seems to come alive in the warm sunlight

And beckon the periodic passerby to envelop themselves in the serenity.

But there is one for whom the beckon is not serenity but development,

Which consumes, with a voracious appetite, the beauty of the natural world.

With a disregard for the purity of the meadow, he comes with machines

To turn over the stones of the meadow and bury the grass in the past.

And the offspring of the meadow will never know

The wildflowers and blades that decay

Beneath the sod of seemingly beautiful lawns.