The green meadow grass won’t complain
that the thistle landed there
took up more than its fair share,
piercing blades with sharp wide leaves.
It won’t scream at the wind
clench its fist and blame God
or spend its whole life in the argument.
Last night’s fog frosted the field
with blessings of dew.
Glistening, the grass forgets
all about the thorns and scratches.
Why fight these conditions
known only to God and wind?
We grow tolerant
of greedy leaves and sharp edges,
find gifts of shade and protection.
In the great acceptance of what is.