I rather like the grass



The green, growing grass that greets me every morning.

I love the simplicity of the grass.


It has always been green,

an unwavering testament to its health and the gentle love from rolling spring rains,

And it has always been home in which we convene,

trampled underneath the light-up Sketchers—

velcro, of course, as I was never one for hard work as a kid—

and tiptoed around in beaten vanilla Vans—

sewn-together, of course, as I am not one for goodbyes, even to my whimpering shoes.


The barriers, they bend,

willingly to the world’s whispering wind,

unwillingly to the memory of my stomping Sketchers,

yet the blades always bend,

and maybe it’s programmed or practiced or prepared,


but it’s simple and constant and given and something I consider a friend,

a friend from the ground, from Mother Earth herself,

and it may be a friend even though it’s one I often expend.


I pluck the streaks of green, growing grass from our selfless Mother Earth,

one by one, blade by bending blade, patch by priceless patch,

as if promoting prayer while tossing a menacing match toward a church,

irony in its greatest, greatest defeat as I

tear apart, tear down, tear up

among the sprouts that have never doubted my worth.


They’re so simple, so sickeningly simple as they stand in my yard,

singing praises to the songbirds and curses to my careless dogs,

routine and simple and unmarred.



by any means,

by any recounting from the revolving door of characters in my life

or the simple constants of my signed bowling pin or my shattered hanging mirror,

I am not that simple myself.


So I pluck them, pondering their simplicity,

their beauty praised by many,

and perhaps it’s jealousy.


I will never be the grass in all its brilliancy,

uncomplicated, unbroken, unbothered,

never too much or too little for those around,

never a denied epiphany.


It’s from this “never”—a haunting word of sorts—

that the jealousy stems like grass, the closest I’ll ever get,

and I rip up the roots to beat this friend like a dead horse


in hopes that if I tear it down,

nothing else could be as simple,

be the simplicity I crave for underneath my wounded crown,

and then I wouldn’t be too much


but rather enough.