The Larks, They Sing in Fields of Daisies

The larks, they sing in fields of daisies when the day first arrives.  There when the cool remembrance of the night gives way to the sunshine's summer warmth, I come to stroll this gentle meadow.  Slowly, quietly, lovingly. 

As the daisies smile toward the coming day, I can hear them giggling, like a thousand little girls playing with yellow ribbons in their hair.  They bring me joy, they bring to life a whistling dance within my spirit.

The meadowlarks they rise from hidden places within the sea of summer grass, now matured beyond its green and into its maturing gold.  They rise to sing their cheerful songs across to one another, accents of joy in the rising breeze.

I take the unseen, wandering path that I have traveled over and over these many years, a path known only by the two of us.  Others they take the well-worn. well-determined path that quickly takes them to where they think they need to be, but I meander here among the daisies, for this is where I yearned to be and no place else.

Yes, I keep listening for the larks that sing at times in this field of daisies, where we used to laugh and love before you got lost from me those years ago, one summer when the larks first sang for me, when the larks first sang to you.


The End

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