I am fond of sitting on my knees
with arms outstretched and elbows in mud
to gaze upon single blades of grass

Blades that reach upward with the utmost confidence
Stiff, straight, rigid and noble
Blades barely bending
as they peer at the ground far beneath them

A gust of wind begins to blow
and that blade begins to falter
its crowned head dipping down
as the shaft tumbles toward the waiting ground

But this passes soon enough
and the blade shoots straight back
standing tall once more
straight as before


I am no piece of grass