A child asks
what is grass?
I replied it’s
the fuzz on a man’s face
Who sat in
the daylight to long
And pondered
on things that matter
It’s the way
your mother’s hair moves
When she
rides her horse down the trail
Spitting dust,
leaving only the sound,
Hooves stomping
on the daisy’s in their wake.
Take a
journey to the hills
So you may
see first hand
The ways the
wind shuffles
How it moves
earth’s fingers.
The condensation
in the glass of iced tea
Inviting.
It doesn't know
where it’s going
It drips,
And slips
down to a pool
Of purple
and blue only to be received
As the color
green and yellow
By the optic
part of the brain,
Scanning, perceiving
But we never
feel like it’s doing its job.
I am done
with this world
Someone else
take my place,
But push on I
must
And rip the
blades away from birth
And let them
flow out of my fingers
Into the
questions a child asks.
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