She is a Blade of Grass

She is a blade of grass—

soft enough to sway,

sharp enough to survive.

Not the lush kind grown in manicured rows,

but the kind that splits concrete

and keeps reaching.

She’s been stepped on

more times than she can count—

but each footprint pressed a story into her.

Not broken—

just bent by weather and weight

and always… returning upright.

In spring, she is bright with beginnings—

hope sprouting from the hollow places,

a quiet resurrection in green.

In summer, she burns beneath the sun,

learning the ache of growth

and the thirst that comes with exposure.

Still, she stands—

drenched in gold and grit.

By fall, she fades,

not because she’s dying

but because change comes

in whispered shades of rust and resilience.

Color is not loss—

it’s transformation.

And winter?

She lays low…

invisible, underestimated.

But underneath frostbitten stillness

she is dreaming in root and memory,

plotting her next rise

with the patience only the buried know.

The world tells her

the grass is greener elsewhere—

but she knows better.

The grass isn’t more green on the other side;

it is merely another shade.

She doesn’t envy—

she embodies.

Every hue, every season, every storm

etched into her fibers

like a secret vow

to keep growing

no matter what the sky decides.

She is not waiting to be admired.

She is.

A blade of grass—

small, overlooked—

yet part of something

wilder than control

and stronger than belief.

Unshakable,

unruly,

alive.