eye to the grass.
a breeze stirs;
the foliage trembles.
the footstep asks a question:
a sole left behind
stamped into the ground.
the grass will remember
and perhaps,
if you listen well,
it will asnwer,
whispering gently
for only open ears to hear.

and when the rain comes,
pitterpatter, leaving
its own imprint,
the grass will remember.
and perhaps,
if you care to stay
after the rain has gone
it will tell you a story
that none have heard before;
a story of birds
a story of songs
a story of imprints
left by rain
and footsteps.
just listen;
they'll speak.

~.~

written a _long_ time ago, on a trip with some of my youth group. it was sunny and warm, life was ok, and i was happy and bored. so i wrote. crappy and generic. i love it.