This morning the grass seems more alive than anything I have ever known. They have so much to say, these tiny hairs, sprouting and dying by the millions. They want to tell me everything before they go.
Listen, they say.
The first one tells me of the woman’s foot, of the heavy weight of her black shoe pounding on it each morning. It shows me the rips on its side. It tells me it dreams of better things.
The second tells me of the day it rained vanilla ice cream, and how soft and cool it felt gliding down the length of its small green body, and of the dog who came and licked it clean.
The third tells me of the little ant who crawled up it, and how delightful the tickling of its tiny legs – Oh! If only I knew such pleasure! – and how it continues on simply with the hope of feeling such bliss again.
And soon the others discover that I am paying attention.
A chorus of stories begins, and spreads.
I can hear from yards all over town the discussions of when they were last cut, and how beautiful they all look – Don’t I think so? – with their new trims, so stylish and sleek.
Admire us, they say.
I think of the wild fields of the world I have come across and admired. I hear them shout and sing and scream their freedom as they are moved by the wind. I listen to their timeless offerings of tranquility and possibility and joy. I call upon their peaceful growth.
Join us, they say.
So for a moment I lower myself down into the grass and let each blade tickle me with all of the delight of an ant’s tiny legs. I let each blade tell me its stories of joy and sorrow, and then I tell them mine.
And so it goes – the old blades making their final remarks, the new blades learning to speak, the voices of millions exclaiming their hopes and fears and dreams.
The grand conversation of life continuing. Infinitely.