As the summer came in, it didn’t stop raining. Grass has grown on the hills, in the meadows, above the bog. There is grass below spruce, grass below pine, grass below oak. In the winter the grass turned brown and it all died. But did it really die?
Maybe it was close to a year ago when I first wrote about grass, the grass of life. I liked what I wrote, and the way it made me think about all the unnoticeable things that I like to notice. Even now, though I practice noticing them for so long, I feel like there is a lot that I miss. I am not right all the time, and I am not always here. I go elsewhere in my mind, and make mistakes, and don’t notice many times. Even though I have made it what I want to do, I still am not perfect.
Why do I write about grass, what does it matter?
Everything can be found in everything
BecauseGrass is beautiful