Lament For a Meadow

Sadness and gratitude for a vanishing field of dreams

My friend texted me this morning: 20 houses, Debbie. They’re going to build 20 houses in the meadow.

My heart contracted painfully. Then it seemed to plunge to my toes.

Twenty houses in the meadow. How could it be?

It’s a beautiful, pristine meadow, but not a really large one. A sweeping glance can encompass it, end to end. There’s a narrow rim, like a ruffled collar of oak, maple, and beech trees along its farthest edge.

Tall grasses, wildflowers, songbirds, deer and rabbits are found there. A life- sustaining kingdom for the local flora and fauna. But at first glance to most humans, just a meadow.

But to me it has been a place of beauty and discovery. A haven of peace and inspiration. A destination for which, even after 40 years , I still feel a swelling of love and gratitude. And memories:

A herd of deer passing through a pocket of morning fog.

A kestrel hovering over the tangled grass, searching for its prey.

A flock of bluebirds flashing their brilliant wings on a winter’s morning.

Bobolinks balanced precariously on a slender grass stalk in May.

Coyotes skulking along the woodland edge.

Swallows seining for mosquitoes in July.

Wildflowers in abundance: buttercups, yarrow, chicory, and tansy,

milkweed, asters, and every kind of goldenrod.

Each in its turn a micro-world of color and scent.

Butterflies of every size flitting through the flowers.

And the sounds!

First, red winged blackbirds, flickers, and phoebes.

On warm, wet April evenings the chorus of spring peepers.

As summer advances, sparrows, robins, orioles, warblers, and finches.

So many birds, it is difficult to untangle the delicious threads of their songs.

Crickets growing bolder as nights grow warmer.

By late summer the Katydids adding to the din.

Grasshoppers seeming to fly as well as leap.

Mists hanging over the fields in Autumn.

Flocks of swallows perching along the telephone wires.

Canada geese calling overhead, forming and reforming their straggling lines.

In winter, brown and tan are the dominant colors.

Dead grass, dead leaves, dead flowers. But life remains.

Small, anxious creatures scuttling beneath the withered grass .

In the sky, a red tailed hawk circling with hungry need.

Without song birds and insects, the meadow seems quiet in winter.

But suddenly the harsh calls of blue jays and crows slice through the silence.

Unmusical as they are, their presence is welcomed on a hushed winter’s day.

Oh, Meadow, I have loved you for decades! Your beauty has inspired so many thoughts, so many poems, and so many prayers.

Sometimes the needs of nature and the needs of people are at variance. This is one of those times. Twenty new houses. One simple meadow.

My heart is heavy, remembering the abundant life the meadow has sustained for countless years.

As if from a distance, I see a slight, solitary woman. Walking along the meadow, often with binoculars around her neck, stopping every few minutes to look and listen and smile.

Welcoming every returning visitor to the meadow in spring. Thanking every creature that remained in winter, until spring returned.

A lament for the meadow. Yes. But also an ode to memory and gratitude.

Here are a few poems inspired by the meadow: