Lush green grass moves with the wind
more hush than the lolling waves
on a quiet sea.
But when drought and the season
dries the high grass yellow
it gives it a voice: a whisper.
As a child
I sprawled on a hill
with the scratchy spikes
of tall fescue
leaning near me,
lapping my face
like cat tongues.
I wanted to decipher
that raspy murmur:
was it a prayer, a poem
or a proverb?
I cannot tell you.
All I know is
I cupped my hands
behind my ears,
to listen, just to listen.
Lillian Susan Thomas
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/secrets-of-grass/
