Rural Reflections

 This is the grass your feet are planted on.

You paint it orange or you sing it green,
But you have never found
A way to make the grass mean what you mean.


A cloud can be whatever you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye.

But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to express the sky.


Get out there with your splendid expertise;
Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less.

Inhuman nature says:
Inhuman patience is the true success.


Human impatience trips you as you run;
Stand still and you must lie.

It is the grass that cuts the mower down;
It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.

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