A poem by Adam Pitas

A meadow wakes from a dark damp slumber.
Fresh blades flood with fury and rapt wonder,
Watching the march of a merciless light,
Burn and beat out the last breaths of the night.

A fevered meadow awaits the hot swords.
The glistening blades rise to the sun’s hordes,
As a wild wind rips the protective leaf,
Instilled by good night upon the bare heath.

The cool ward of night’s coat is done and gone.
The meadow is scorched with a bright new dawn,
While rays of morn carry dew to the Gods,
Taking sweet life from the fevered rose buds.

Red drops of dew flow from rosy flowers.
Rays of raw light pound with piercing power,
Murdering a meadow stark, yet by strife,
Giving the land a thing vital to life.

Drizzle rises to another hereafter.
Flames drivel with maddening laughter,
Cackling and watching Hell’s floods from the sky,
Scorch the Earth, leaving a meadow to die.

After a callous charge, a sad moon creeps.
Night sees slain flowers and silently weeps.
As a cool, gentle rain breaks pouring down,
Night dons my dear meadow in a damp gown.

Spirits of vapor return to the field.
The grass blades rejoice, my meadow is healed.
New life is sprouting from the soft damp ground,
Tired, my meadow sleeps, renewed and renowned.