Discovery of the Present

I wake up, as though from a dream,
And look about me.
My hair matted, caked with mud,
Filled with twigs and leaves,
Reminders of hours spent writhing on the ground.
On my face tears are streaked
It all floods back to me.
There is nothing there.
So I get up,
Knowing I must move on -- can't just lie there,
And look about again
And see for the very first time
A meadow filled with daisies
Lilac, lillies, fox gloves, paintbrushes.
Their sweet aroma wafts to my nostrils
And I dance, in the moss and fern and flower,
Like a child on her birthday,
With no inhibition.
The mirage is gone,
But the meadow is so much better.