Grass

GRASS Along the lawn I lie, my ease at noon, the sun warm on my back-- or sometimes, in the lull of evening, amid tabletalk of worm and beetle, comes the keening of molespeech, old groundhogs chuckling deep underground. And always, I hide a thousand sins-- the odor of decay, dead bird or animal, lost coins, a ring, a spoon, a shard of glass, the key to someone’s house dropped-- long ago, the bastard child buried near the climbing rose. In autumn, I will pull the leaves up over me and dream of crocus in winter snow, the sound of human voices in the distance, roots traveling under my feet.