Across the Meadow

Across the meadow, the grass was green,
the clover sweet, and the air was clean:
the rivers fresh, and the ocean blue,
and in April forests, violets grew.

We could smell the dust on a country road,
and were not afraid to touch a toad.
We could walk a fence ‘cross the top of the world,
and lived for the winter when snowflakes swirled.

We loved grasshoppers, and were shy with girls,
and examined shells in search of pearls.
We built flimsy rafts for profound explorations,
and awaited summer with wild expectations.

Now no one cares that the birds have flown,
and who is to notice that the leaves are brown?
For now we are old, and have lived long in pain:
     I wish the grass was green again.