Amidst the trees and their canopy, a green hued kaleidoscope, lies a hidden meadow in spring, a retreat from the shadows, where the sky meets the earth. The sun sojourns there, sending gentle winds to dance with the young grasses. They sway to and fro, an auditorium of slender green children, cheering in unison the wonder of her season. Flowers, yellow and lavender and red, sprout from the fertile soil forming a colorful mosaic, a tapestry of life, their scented petals gracing the meadow with a fresh fragrance , a precious perfume, a scent that could conjure bereaved breath from senseless form and bear it away on butterfly wings. Even the flowers bow to the glorious sun with her radiant smile. She knows their names and counts their petals carefully, bathing them in her easy light. The land rises and falls, earth like an ocean broken from the barren plain of time, soothing swells stood still. Hope sleeps, its face towards the azure skies, and sails away upon the crest of the hidden meadow, pursuing the sun beyond the horizon, beyond when the world is dark and frozen and trees claw at the grey skies like creatures in nightmares. It awakens, jetsam in a pacific archipelago, where birds always sing their morning melodies in tribute to an ever-rising sun and flowers grow five feet tall. The sun lives there and she smiles an eternal spring on hidden meadows. I'm wondering what to do with this. It isn't written intentionally in any kind of metric rhythm, but it isn't exactly meant to be prose either. I'm not sure how to categorize it. Any ideas? Comments? Have some short writing of your own to share?