The dreams that grass dreams.
Each night sky climbs down close,
answering the small prayers of grass, left
lingering on echoes where feathers have been.
Each night grass takes it's secret drink,
and sky says - tell me.
Grass answers - here, and here,
here a man's feet passed over me, and here,
another's crossed and vanishing into brown
on the dry hillside,
here a deer's small stone feet, here
a child and dog, scattering like leaves,
here a deeper impression - someone slept,
roots whisper - and dreamt.
In the telling, grass is healed.
Some nights I awaken -
Do I hear the rustle of your passing embrace?
The trail of your fingers across my bare skin?
Each night spirit comes, slipping beneath
my garment of memories, faithful or not,
drawn along the long thread of my dreaming,
healing doubts branded by the sun's long gaze.
Some nights - it's you, laying beside me.
And each dawn, briefly, the grass
is blue shadows and sky is green swirls.
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