Member-only story
When Your Fingertips Met Grass
Poetry
you pulled at the weeds as if they were choking
the lifeblood out of you, a nemesis personified,
but each time you tore at the grass brought hurt,
a recollection of times past in a long-gone memory.
*
you remember greater fields, tidy and clean-cut,
the rustle of a lawn mower pushing through,
until your senses sang with scents of summer
as birds chirped and insects flitted to and fro.
*
but then the storms ripped across grassy inclines,
the picture suffering from blows of rainfall
while winds stirred and tumbled and swirled,
until everything you knew became chaos churning.
*
it wasn’t a matter of rebuilding or renewing —
those band-aids wouldn’t hold for long enough —
yet you tried anyway, at least for a time, to reclaim
every little picture-perfect scene that was lost.
*
even the little plot of land, an inheritance of a kind,
