Lee (meaning ‘meadow’ or ‘wood’)

A man came to a meadow.

There is nothing unusual in this.

The meadow pleased him, and as he was weary

he sat down in it, and smelt its sweet, grassy scent.

Now there is nothing beautiful about a meadow,

but it is a comforting place, nonetheless;

the small wildflowers attract the bees and hoverflies

with their subtle shapes and colors.

The man felt so at rest in the meadow

that he kicked off his shoes and stretched out

his toes in its warm, inviting grace.

In fact he felt so comfortable that he began

to muse, and so he told the meadow about the rose.

There is nothing imperfect about a rose.

The meadow listened, and every stalk was sad

about the perfection of the rose.

The man did not seem to notice.

Again, there is nothing unusual in this.

In his flow, the man told the meadow about the orchid.

There is nothing plain about an orchid.

Its form is exotic and sensual, and somehow dangerous.

The meadow felt the evening dew settle on its leaves

and tiny pastel petals, and though the insects suckled

at its nectar it felt sad, and it wanted the man to leave.

The man couldn’t understand why the flowers in the meadow

that he liked and had even come to love were all closed,

their heads like pretty, angry fists bobbing in the dimming light

as they thought about the orchid and the rose

and all the other beautiful cut flowers in his vase.

(First published in Cyclamens and Swords, August 2015.)