The horse sighs in the meadow,
The meadow of my mourning.
How is it that I can see it everywhere out there,
But when I look for it within it's never nearly as clear.
I write it, seek it, but it cannout
Be found though trying.
Only by resting into a place of peace and quiet will it come,
For it cannot be sought.
So I quiet and wait and expect,
but that, again, quite looks like effort.
Through it's letting go and release,
The only way into mourning's meadow.