In a meadow there are no weeds.

All is just as it should be —

With curious variations of stature and hue.

Step into it . . . walk through it . . .

Certain glances catch and hold you . . .

Slow you down to a stop.

Gold and red and blue . . .

Waving stamens . . . pistil in the middle . . .

Every flower is a good father and mother

As a bee does its loving reproductive shuffle.

When through . . . when looking back

The Grand Comingle is apparent . . .

Free for us to see —

Now without a weed.