A Poem: Grass

Three of the most beautiful lines:

‘He does not raise his voice;
He does not crush the weak,
or quench the smallest hope.’

So all our hopes,
though they might beat against our chest with wings,
or lie smaller than a mustard seed
hidden in the hand,
can grow in time
like the tall grass lengthening.

Can incline towards faith
as seedlings seek out the light,
surpassing themselves
with the warmth of the sun,
and the wind
speaking over them.

Mary Oliver speaks of the Catbird,
‘common as the grass’,
who has picked his pond and made
a soft thicket of the world –
that in wonderment I consider
how good it really is

to be one of many,
in an ever stirring, breathing
mass of humanity.
Perhaps not so different
to a kingdom measured out in the grass
from fence post to gate,

the breeze gently whispering,
the soft sun delivering a steady coverage.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
February 2020

4 thoughts on “A Poem: Grass

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