Pale wheat-colored froth of seed heads
spoke to me as I walked past—
“Please do not worry,” they said.
“Let the weight
bend you over. There will be a time
for rising. Not today.”
I vowed to watch the grasses
through winter days ahead,
noticing how they held on despite
snow and ice, to celebrate
in wind and rain how they flexed,
were jostled and battered, but stayed.
An ice storm bent them flat.
When ice melts, stems and seed heads rising
again, I let wind touch my cheek.
My skin tender, it yields.
Not sculpted from stone, or ice
I join with the grasses.