The leaves of grass may be dead,
yellow and brown,
covered with a littering
of sharp pine needles,
but the ground is warm
and smells fresh and new.
I chose to sit in the shade
on this side of the tree
that slopes upward
toward the concrete school.
I want to face downward,
downhill, but I want to feel
the strong, rough bark of this tree
hold me in the breeze.
I feel safer here,
so I try to avoid glancing
at the school.
In order for you to understand,
I must look, but understand
I am doing this for you.
It's depressing, really, to see
the sun warm its cold, white walls.
The sun does not differentiate
between concrete and grass
(although it should).
It shines, warms every body,
tree, building, and child's head.
The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,
city to nature, warmth to cold,
is understood by us all.
Thoreau is not the only one
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass
capturing their infinity
for us to understand.
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),
continue to notice and
continue to write.
But they are dead, you say,
They cannot write!
Ah! But they do, for
they write through me and in me,
and by me.
Thoreau: in every drop of water;
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.
They are still here,
and so am I.
I'm glad I chose this side of the hill.
I'm glad I chose this pen,
and this day and
- ► 2006 (17)
- Let me ask you: have you ever been in love? I mean...
- a reminder
- cat scratches
- all things beautiful
- Under the apple tree
- I'm sorry that you can't see our love on TV. It's ...
- She comes to me at night when I feel alone and wan...
- Please, my love, let me hold your hands tonight. L...
- Focus on what lies ahead as you wander afoot. The ...
- You don't think I love you the way others do. You ...
- Ah, Whitman! The leaves of grass may be dead, yell...
- Oh sorrow! Oh depression!
- In the style of William Carlos Williams (or poems ...
- I am a flame burning brilliantly for you. My lips...
- The teabag bleeds into the hot water, slowly oozin...
- While balancing an orange on the round tupperware,...
- Within these walls
- the waiting room
- Modest Proposal
- #1 son
- A breeze blows in the night. With it, comes the in...
- Take me out of this moment, this place in time, an...
- on writing
- what the heck?
- mysterious country
- today, tonight
- two children
- on writing poetry
- ▼ March (35)