Blades of Grass
On blades of grass I lie;
they bend in the wind.
I breathe in and out,
my chest is hot and narrow;
the sky is cold and wide.
This scent of grass—
It fills my nostrils.
Grass can be torn and
grass can shred;
it can bleed a green paste
and wither in the sun.
But my cheek it tickles;
my shoulders it hugs
and caresses my neck.
It sways in the breeze, quiet;
it does not scream
nor laugh, nor weep:
it is grass.
Like dew, a cold tear
slides down; it is caught
by grass.
It does not hear.
It does not know.
It does not understand.
But tears—
it wipes away.
No time has passed.
The moment yet lives.
On blades of grass I lie;
they bend in the wind.
