tell me there's no
way to find what you're looking for.
that's most likely the
case when you're
one cm
tall &
you live in the grass. isn't it
difficult to keep your head up
when the
grass grows tall &
you grow
weary. the sun
(sometimes)
suffuses the space
in&around
the tree branches.
past the garbage &
the once art, now trash can.
it's true, the sun seems to polish &
rub in (small)
circles everything it
encounters.
it changes colors of things & possibly makes
them a bit closer to the way that
they are meant to be seen; that is if
things are even "meant" to be seen
in a particular
way. it's a strange feeling
being smaller
than blades of grass.
the grass is cut down & keeps at it.
keeps growing. keeps
gasping for air. for light. then
there's us. there's me.
i'd rather lay down
& die. let the sun's
rays caress my body. feel every
angle &
imperfection that follows my face.
i'd rather let my umbrella down
& have the
wind gently (forcefully)
breathe life into my nostrils. even if that means
getting no oxygen.
letting work slip past as
i am concealed by the ochre droppings
of the trees. i have no concern
for sustaining
my breath.
but all that is found
in a (not)
deserted field sees otherwise.
lie down
on the grass at night.
tell me you don't feel the same. it's like
life support minus
the machinery
& plus
the birds, breeze,
&
tongue of the grass.
perhaps
the grass holds a great deal of things;
an earring, straw wrapper,
a poem folded
up, &
other such items.
but those are difficult to find when
you are so
small. so
small.
that's why it's easier to simply lounge
& the
wind works meticulously
with it's partners
to keep
us alive.
perhaps the song "turncloaking" by the annuals off their new ep aptly titled "sweet sister" is appropriate.
perhaps ammons' "gravelly run" is.
who knows. maybe the (my) muse rides the wind on a
paper airplane while i write nonsense.
maybe nature is worth while.
*&the picture is courtesy of my computer's camera this afternoon (evening).
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