Blade of Grass


Walking through an imaginary park,
With what you would call my imaginary friends,
(though their words commune with me daily),
Hemingway was carrying a basket,
Really just a code word,
For anything filled with booze as we approached,
The meadow was soft and inviting,
As in a dream,
(fitting no… for that is just what this is as is life)
Zelda and F. Scott as per usual standard operating procedure,
Were dancing about like two love sick children,
(how I wish to be a love sick child for all the rest of the days of my life)
Their love propagated in equal measure,
By a steadfast admiration,
And empty bottles,
(perhaps a word or two if they could stay sober long enough)
Picasso had already set up his easel and was painting something,
The cubes not making sense to me yet,
And truth be told,
I wondered if they ever would,
His sly smile lighting not just his canvas but also this meadow.

Joyce, Eliot and Pound were deep in conversation,
Wondering how spectacular the vistas might be if they had some opium,
From the corner Picasso yells out;
“Do you want some?”
The ignored him and continued their loud and verbose considerations,
Gertrude and I were hand in hand,
Like a mother and child,
(her caress moving me to my safe place)
Swinging our arms to and fro,
When a glint hit my eye,
So powerfully that I was stunned,
I could not move,
I was transfixed,

for I saw love’s face,


in time,

this time,


Stein asked;
“What is it?”
I dropped to my knees,
Putting my head neatly on the hardened ground,
As tears welled up in my eyes,
I pointed to the blade of grass,
Just one simple yet affirming blade of grass,
Like none other I had ever seen,
Even in a dream things seem unreal if they are too perfect,
And this blade of grass was just that,
“A blade of grass?”

Without missing a beat I pleaded with her,
As a boy does his mother,
To join me on the ground,
She bent down,
Placing her hand on my shoulder,
Which I took as a cue,
To unravel the secrets of my twisted soul,
Reciting as I do,
Whitman immediately came to mind;

“The wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.”

Upon finishing,
Hemingway had set up court,
And passed a series of drinks around,
Gertrude summoned them over,
As tears fell from my cheeks,
I wondered if one might be so fortunate,
As to live out the rest of its short life,
On another blade of grass…

Each in their own way asked,
What it was,
Why I was so enraptured,
Why such a thing as a blade of grass moved me…

You’ve all heard me ask,
Where is God?

Hushed hums and hahs,
Yeses filled the air.

In that reflection,
That little glint of dew,
Falling to its ultimate demise,
Is the prism that reflects our lives,
That reflects our passions,
Our concerns,
Our hopes and our desires,
Right there,
As I pointed.

There is God! There is my God!
Right there,
In that specific blade of grass,
In this moment,
In that droplet,
The mysteries of our lives,
Of our place on this earth,
Of the universe,
Is right there…

The collected giants joined me,
In weeping,

For in that spectacular moment,
We all felt,
Embracing us,
As humanity can never embrace God,
And love,
Love ruled the day,
Fulfilled and fulfilling,

In a dew droplet on a blade of grass,
Missed by most,
But not us,
Not on that day,
As the enigma that is love revealed,
The promise of life,
In one simple blade of grass,
My eternal love,
And hope;




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