Grass is humble, always grass.
So that we’d know it anywhere -
Africa or Italy, walking
In and our of time.
Blink, and a century is gone.
The whole delicate web that makes
a world - intricate,
insistent as this pulse
inside my wrist -
continues without effort.
There’s no weariness now,
no sense that I must shoulder guilt,
assume responsibility.
I have put down the world, grown lighter.
I have become ‘brightface’.
The spirit moves within,
and in and out of time:
this life, that one;
rich, poor,; speaking English
or a tongue I have never dreamed
my lips could find as familiar as fruit.
No matter where, or how,
only the why:
that I should grow within,
the ‘I’ that is this humble spirit,
swift as grass, humble,
certain - everywhere grass,
under the bright and changeless sky.
