A blade of grass does
not dress up like wood chips
At the threat of a winter
storm. It does not
bow and bend to please,
a supplicating leaf.
And if its neighbor is a mangy
clod of blistered dirt, does
it ever complain? Nor when
it rains, or shines, or drizzles
for awhile.
I think instead, it does what
sages do—devout old men—
sit a bit and take the world
as it walks, and talks, and breathes.
And, dare I say, destroys itself
a hundred brilliant awful
Ways. Because, as perfect as
Some blades together are,
They fill the endless fields of
A too-corrupted earth. So
live it does, without
A fit of passion; confident alone
that world without it, our
seas of shining green would fade
To brown.