the bipolarity of grass

summer

the hills

they swell

with pride

painted green

by their

enthusiasm

for summer.

kids climb

with the

temperature

to the tops

of the hills

and stand there

to revel in

their conquest.

and scorching

sun turns the

tips of their blades

to a brown crust

and the hills

in their violence

send children

tumbling down

the sides,

a misdirected

revenge,

because the earth

cannot punish

the sky,

so instead it

lashes out at

young faces

pink with sun.

they share

the same enemy

and yet

their quest

for vengeance

is always just

a little too high

for them to grasp.

for grass

cannot grow

to the clouds.

it is cut down

by lawnmowers

run by neighbors

who protest that

things have gotten

out of hand.

and children

cannot reach

for the sky

and pull it down

because as they

get older

their parents

inform them

that they should

seek something

more grounded.

like a lawyer

or a doctor

or maybe just

work at that

fast food joint

down the road.

nice and close

to home.

and very far away

from the

great and dangerous

sky.

winter

the hills

they sink

deep into the earth

shrinking away

from the sunlight,

pits of shade

that accompany

every manic high.

and when the

temperature drops,

and winter

casts its breath

across the hills

and snow collects

in piles

freezing over

the lows.

and children

send their sleds

like rockets

over snowbanks

screaming as

they go down

with glee.

and the hills,

in their jealousy,

send children

tumbling down

their sides,

left to clutch

their ankles

and wail

for a parent

that never comes.

for the hills

are too vast,

an echo chamber

of muted sobs.

the children's cries

match their own.

and the children

themselves

must be sent

to learn independence,

as they wobble,

leaned against their sled

towards home.

spring

the hills

they shrink

collapsing under

the weight

of rain,

spring thunderstorms

beckoned by

the changing

of the seasons,

torrential downpours

that send mud

cascading down

the sides of the hills.

maybe

they were once

mountains,

before the rain

eroded

their identity

and replaced it

with something

smaller and

easier to manage.

and the children

they splash,

feet leaving scars,

and the hills,

in their retaliation,

send children

tumbling down

their sides,

slipping on

patches of mud

until their faces

are smeared

with grime and tears

and their shirts

are stained

so deeply brown

that they will have to be

tossed away.

for the hills

are made of waste

and they desire

to create more.

and the children

are wrapped

in excess,

trusting their parents

to provide,

and destroying

the rest

without mercy.

autumn

the hills

they roll

tossed and turned

between hot and cold

a constant adjustment

to their newest

mood.

buried under

the blanket

of leaves

the hills

can finally

sleep,

shut their eyes

and rest

and the children

they scatter

the leaves,

building their

piles and crashing

until the hills

wake up

beneath them.

and the hills,

in their exhaustion,

send children

tumbling down

their sides,

faces bruised by

the first touches of frost

and sticks

loosened from their

branches

by the ceaseless passage

of time.

but the children

do not change

because the children

do not need to change.

they are stagnant,

comfortable in

their youth

until that youth

begins to be

stripped away.

for the hills

cannot change,

even as they regret,

because mother nature

doesn't have a degree

in psychology

and the hills

have no lithium

to treat

their ceaseless

disorder.

and so the children

continue to fall

and the hills

continue to roll,

caught in the

endless shift

of seasons

and intent on

sharing

their misery

with the world

in the only way

they know how:

violence.