March on the Meadow
Step, two, three, four.
Across the floor, out the door,
Where the soft breeze blows
and birds fly free.
Flap, flutter, flitter, fly.
Birds go winging, swooping by,
Where sweet grass grows
in the meadow, green.
Putter, patter, pattern-step.
Past where the silver fox has crept,
Where birches sprinkle dappled shade
and the eagles hide their nest.
Marking, marching, making tracks.
Swans slide by grayed fishing shacks,
Where the water spills through the spring-green glade
and I stop here to take a rest.
Tracing back the way I came.
Rolling clouds spill a spring-time rain.
Where a wandering song fills my heart with light,
and I stroll back through the meadow, bright.
I am golden sun, though I cannot fly.
I am bursting clouds that fill the sky.
My heart spills over and I start to cry…
and ever more the meadow-creatures will talk,
how they tamed me with their nature walk.