Cut the Grass

#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. The wonderful workings of the world: wonderful, wonderful: I'm surprised half the time: ground up fine, I puff if a pebble stirs: I'm nervous: my moarality's intricate: if a squash blossom dies, I feel withered as a stained zucchini and blame my nature: and when grassblades flop to the little red-ant queens burring around trying to get aloft, I blame my not keeping the grass short, stubble firm: well, I learn a lot of useless stuff, meant to be ignored: like when the sun sinking in the west glares a plane invisible, I think how much revelation concealment necessitates: and then I think of the oecean, multiple to a blinding oneness and realize that only total expression expressed hiding: I'll have to say everything to take on the roundness and withdrawal of the deep dark: less than total is a bucketful of radiant toys.