Stories in the Grass

by P.B. Adams

If one can be quiet while roses

are just blooming in the east,

nature sleepy still–a small bird

piping perhaps or a dragonfly softly

darting and hovering, the mercurial

silver beat of air whipped briefly for speed

and wind just light upon your cheek,

a breath that sweeps deep

sleep from sodden eyes, hushing

the waking world for a moment–

in such a moment you may hear

stories in the grass. Naturally,

there will be some rasping

complaints about a lack of rain

or too much sun or biting green

locusts from the tall slender stalks,

throats parched with height–but listen

close, the tender young greens beneath

will be whispering the gossip they keep

passing through every field in one halcyon

green wave that sets the raspberry

red clover heads off with knowing nods,

the sweet scent rising to almost

a giggle, soothing a waking meadow

to patience with the world.

Stories are whispered in dawn

meadows but truthfully without

words each brings the will to hear

himself or nothing but the empty wind

among the rustling leaves of grass.