Critique: ghazal

A ghazal of the meadow 

I want each blade of grass to sway with the passing sun. 

And the breeze to relive its movement again.  

I want the river behind the oak tree to be mine,

and the tree with the copper leaves only in the fall. 

If I lived where sun glitters in between branches,

a blue-feathered bird would hum my name. 

I want the crumbling wooden cabin to fall,

so I can rescue it, paint it white and yellow.

I can see the meadow’s future through a scope,

it browns and it yellows, but will remain the same. 

I run through the lengthy grasses, they itch against my legs.

And I am smiling too wide, a crazy person perhaps mad. 

But I won’t stop running until I hear your footsteps,

following behind me, trying to catch up. 

Don’t abandon a girl running free in the wild

or she might find a reason to never stop, never lie