I once did find a distant mead,
quite hidden where the woods recede.
It was remote from pasture land.
Was it forgot, or maybe planned
to leave a spot where flowers grew,
with hidden lessons to pursue?
The grass was thick and rich in bloom,
and verity, and rare perfume.
The garden that I stumbled on,
knew secret truths of time foregone,
a single page of youth’s sweet tale,
where lasting beauty might prevail,
and need and grace could coexist,
though hard to find and easily missed.
And I would leave the blooms in peace,
for someone else to find release.
For who’s to know, some other day,
another soul might pass this way,
and rightly pause to mark the hour,
the wisdom of a woodland flower.
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