Grass (Inspired By Whitman's A Child Asks What Is Grass)

grass gently waves, sways, twists and swirls with the gentle breeze in a thousand steps and styles god's merciful and caring hands a bewildered young soul asked ' what is grass? ' wrote lucky Whitman who was so inspired by the boy that he wrote a long poem about life and death well what is grass? a genius mind would gather it is god clothing his earth, men his way of crocheting to cover up nudity of his every land and he so loves the task he twists and dances in pleasure as his breathe sweeps over the grass there is music of joy everywhere that his hand touches - as he expends stitch by stitch inch by inch to spread his cheer to think of a man without clothes? how a child would run for cover on mere sight grass is god's grace for the child the mountains, the plains, us how crude, barren, run down, they would look without the gentle and refreshing green green grass the grass that would sweep us off our feet for a dance anytime of the day well then let's answer the child question: what is grass? whitman's child would learn that each blade is god's finger as he signs a convenant in green of his continuous care for us his laughter sweeps over the grass the way breeze does to our heart inspired by A child said, What is the grass? A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? ....I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child....the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps, And here you are the mother's laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? What do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprouts show there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared. All goes onward and outward....and nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. Walt Whitman