Is just another work of nature
which has never wept for itself,
which has dug one plot in the heart
or the entire field, stunting growth
but rendering the land remarkably definite.
Each blade in faults, qualities, fate, which
I peer through and peer within:
wasted arguments, important tears
nights sheathed in light sweat turned complacent
lunches eaten in the busy heat of noon hour.
Blades turned cool to touch,
no more muffling in the grass from torrid
frustration, the relic popsicle I’m licking
not dripping for once.