Grass-Bombs

Plateaus rich with earthy moss. Heady to the sense. Where tufts of grass grow scattered on and everywhere is dense. Where little boys pull grassy clumps to throw them in the air. These grass-bombs losing all their sand to landing in their hair. A place where ridges run the breeze. Their bleached stone smooth to touch. Their gullies acting like a trough that puddles form as much. Where sticks lie flat against the ground to dry without a bark. And gravel bloats between the weeds wet stones sit on to park. The very spot you sooth your soul To flip the stones for peace. And know when nature's company has power that won't cease.