I always took the grass for granted
ungroomed and growing long
from weekly rain. A harp
of wild strains I never heard
but unconsciously felt. The soft fox tail, the raw
lace, the caravan of pebbles hidden within. Those
pink swabs of clover.
Your field was full of its tangled hush
and we stepped through hurriedly
trampling stems and leaves, anxious to reach
flatter terrain. We may have caught the moth, a stray note
landing on thistle or thorn -- but still
we neglected to listen. Now in a field
of chaparral and dust, I think of you
back home in a home. Your mind
on most days like the desert, desolate
and brusquely swept with a gust
of thoughts you cannot gather. Yet
there is that rare conversation
when words grow high into sentences
and shine green in the morning light.
Your inflections – a harmonic blend
that strikes deeply. A day when my breath
migrates into wonder.