The Book Life

4.23 | April 30, 2010


The grass at my funeral
will want to tell its story,
so don’t forget to let it speak.
I don’t know what it will want to say,
though I can’t help but hope it will issue some complaint
about being trampled. I hope it feels
some hundred feet bending its blades,
heedless in grief. I do. I do also hope it recovers quickly,
when they leave, because after that,
it’s just me and the earth and the worms,
and I will need the grass will tell me sweet things.
Its green is so much comforting
than the dark brown earth, all crumbling and cold.

The grass will want to speak,
I’m sure, so later, after I’m under the ground,
please find someone who can sit,
listen to its song, maybe hear it talking
to me. Find someone who will understand.
The grass will have stories to tell, and requires an interpreter.

If you can’t find someone with the necessary skill,
please come yourself.
Acquaint yourself with the morning dew,
sit down in the dawn, feel the damp creep into your pants,
and be still. Listen. Maybe you will hear the grass,
maybe you will understand,
maybe you will write it down. Maybe
you will hear the grass giving me my daily
weather report.
Maybe you will hear
me answer.

[PROMPT: Combine a speaker and an event that don’t usually go together. This is very late – I’m posting this on the last day of NaPoWriMo, and I admit, I have been slacking. Not having internet at home is quite painful, and it’s also exam time. I have been writing about every other day, and I will power through the rest today!]


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