Last summer’s grass still stands in the field,
dry and fringe-like. It shushes against my thighs
as I walk. How is it still upright? After the weight
of last year’s snow? How has it not fallen, decayed?
Though I can break the brittle stems in my fingers,
it bends in the wind, more resilient than I could imagine.
What inside me is dead, yet still standing?
What old thoughts, their seeds long gone,
are filling the fields of imagination?
The new grass already is emerging into spring.
Soft. Deep green. Unable to be bent or broken,
its scent sweet and sharp in the nose.
Let me find in me this freshness, this new growth,
this willingness to push up through what’s dead.
Let me roll in it like a dog, till I come up stained green—
green thoughts. Green words. Green wonder.
Green learning what it is to be green.