In a meadow there are no weeds;

All is just as it should be —

With curious variations of

             stature and hue.

Look it all over,

See it all at once . . .

             It is Beauty.

Step into it,

Walk through it.

Certain flowers catch . . .

hold you . . . slow you . . .

             To stroll through

Gold, or red, or blue petals,

Waving stamens —

The pistil in the middle,

A glimpse of

             the miracle.

Every flower is 

A good father and mother

when a bee does its

Dusty reproductive

             shuffle.

And even

The prickly influence

Or defensive scents

Serve the whole

             By seasoning the mix.

And looking back you

Know the grand comingle

Needs no call to weed —

            At all.