A child asks, what is the grass?
Well, it is the canopy for the ants
And the carpet for the mammals, of course.
When it’s short, it is rough like a cat’s tongue
Lapping milk from your glass on the table.
When it’s long and filled with cattail patches
Then it is shelter in hide and go seek.
It is where lovers hide by the river
Escaping the world by encompassing.
Grass, I recall, is made for tickling
Worn soles of souls that seek adventure and
Solace. The solstice holds the grass in high
Regards.
Stretching stems greet lunar starlight
While the mammals slumber in their nature.
Rafiki lives in a tree, in tall grass
Under the starlit sky, he dances through
Unaware of craters he’s creating
For those traveling the terrain below.
How wise as to stamper unknowingly
Grass is helpful for those fleeting times of
Spontaneity.
Sitting near marshes
With anticipation of who will blend
Their flutes.
Whistling patterns of lagoon hue.
Grass is whatever you need it to be.
The carpet or the canopy-a place
Of sanctuary-to hear the stories
And the tunes of those there before their moves
To other grasses spread so far and wide
Across centuries, during those blue moons.
The crickets chirp and the mud slides in grass.
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