Walt Whitman’s Lawn

The grass grows deep in shades of green-

From underneath, they can't be seen

Exploring roots of earth below,

Intent on nurturing the flow

Of evolution, tied and bound-

Insistent field mice underground

Determined in their pensive holes

Elicit wonder; have they souls?

The ploughman digs and tills the well,

Evicting rodents where they dwell

And for as such, what good are they?

An incubated notion's stay?

For mice- they have a family den

Where life and death at once begin.

So just because a ploughman can,

Does he belittle all but man?

No! Life is precious all around,

But seldom is the reason found

To hold upon the sacred vow

When living for the here and now-

Embrace the wind and feel the breeze

Or watch the sun in setting ease-

Have harvesters, a scattered seed,

Replaced compassion and the need

To honor Mother Nature's land?

The lack of penance fills the hand.

I sit upon a hill to see

The day of Death encompass me-

My love for all the great and small,

From tiny shrubs to woodlands tall,

Has granted peace, serenity,

And proven Life's divinity-

The sacred code of Nature's way

Entices me as mice will play,

And minutes ticking hourly pass,

I turn again to think of grass ...