Grass

I grow in places

others can’t,

where wind is high

and water scant.

I drink the rain,

I eat the sun;

before the prairie winds

I run.

I see, I sprout,

I grow, I creep,

and in the ice

and snow, I sleep.

On steppe or veld

or pampas dry,

beneath the grand,

enormous sky,

I make my humble,

bladed bed.

And where there’s level ground,