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.
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