Praising Beauty

The last of the raindrops dries of the field,
warm vapors float off the fragrant earth.

Bright blue bells blossom out there,
and here, birds chirp with a touch of glitter.

Further beyond, in that little mead of flowering things,
a young wood, just born, looks into  the future,
where it shall go and bear fruit,
or maybe, some wind may trip it down, to wither.

In that little mead, the flowers sway,
a nod of pride, to their prized glamor and pure fragrance.

Then I will go, walk through the nature,
right through the flowers,
and sit down amongst them, and sing to myself,
dazed by the fragrance and touched by their glamor,
and then, rise and walk back,
praising beauty.

But, behind me, those few flowers and young woods,
that I walked on, while praising beauty,
stay crushed, broken and withering.