How long until the gray brown grass
I walk across each morning
on my way from home to work
begins to speak?

Surely, these small bent blades
on the ragged path’s edge
don’t know or care how far
I push them back.

And if they don’t, then why
should I?  Why should I trouble
myself or anyone else
if plum blossoms fall?

Or is it maybe seeing,
maybe caring, makes it matter? 

Maybe hands as strong as yours
were made for holding
whatever you love and care for
as close as you can.

 

Hear it:

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