We are grass

We are grass

We are grass

and fading flowers.

Mortal. Once young,

setting out.

Beautiful (perhaps),

touched with energy,

anticipation, hope.

We grow old,

despite denials.

We resist, pretending.

We are grass, we are dust;

riding upon the spirit

breath/wind to a somewhere

guessed-at destination.

We soar; we sweep low.

We exult, we despair;

we stumble upon delight and joy.

Disappointment and pain

manage to find us.

We connect;

we disengage.

The grass withers

and the flowers fade.

In the breath/wind

spirit/word,

(which stands forever),

is our beginning;

and our end.

© Ken Rookes 2014