Wet Grass

We are characters in another person's dream Where love is not a right but a choice, at best. Chance, if lucky. So when the pockets of light flash past All the tree counting you do Remember The joy of the smell of wet grass. Your palm open to the wind. The sailing wind of the moment and how it loses and wins our hearts with every sad and flush-glowed sound. Praise from the wandering angel. This wet grass was someone else's dream. And, still, we gut it out.