Blades

Blue grass piercing higher

skyward

blocking out the sun

for those too small to know.

Wish it were not so

that bluegrass blocked the sun

but there is nothing I can do

to prove it otherwise.

When winter bows its leaves

and strangers trod upon it

bended it will be

and critters underneath will know the rays of Glory.

Until then, make a cathedral of your blades

reach skyward, ever high-ward

for in trying to reach the sun

you reach back to me.