by Patricia Daly-Lipeby
Consider a small blade of grass,
Growing on a rock in the woods.
So frail to have pushed through the hard, unyielding mass,
A miracle alone in the forest,
So petite in the grandiose growth of trees.
The sun caresses her blade.
She bends back for more,
And she grows,
Not to be tall like her neighbors,
But a bit bigger than before, and stronger.
A soft summer breeze soothes, fondles her gently,
And she responds, shyly,
Her small body trembling, sensitive, yielding.
The hardship of forcing her way through the rock, forgotten.
Rains come and she drinks with greed the manna of life.
“Grow, grow,” she hears.
The night, adorned by stars, gods of her universe, appears overhead.
“What am I to do?” she cries.
“Be, just be,” they tell her and she sleeps.
It is morning; the dew slips slowly down her sides
As the sun comes back to encourage.
And so time glides by, until one day, she yields,
Sliding off the rock, down,
Down to the soft, secret soil of the Earth.
Do not be sad.
Her life was dear, her goal achieved.
She was what she was,
And she was meant to be.