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
