! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Simply Grass....! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Grass is very pretty; But it’s not simply grass, Or just stuff of lawns. If you go up and close, You see a world Of flowers, waiting To be discovered. Grass flowers keep a low profile; Their colour, height not loud To scream from far off… But as I sit on grass On a humid day, As Sun goes down West in May, Or at mid-noon in December On an icy cold day; Somehow they remind me Of a six month old, Who first learns to crawl And raises his neck and turns To make eye contact With his mom. The innocence writ large On their face Is their unique scent. Although not effervescent; Yet timid… by no means. What if they grow under trees? Or wherever they get To assert themselves. They deserve applause for Holding their own On frail stems. They arrest my gaze, And I feel more than certain God is in small details.