Complaint

I am not accomplished
Says the grass below my feet
I have no curriculum vitae
I have only my DNA
My wild successes my wild failures
Everywhere I burst into flames
People slash and burn me
Animals heedlessly dung on me
Some of those animals have MFAs
I could teach a workshop on “How to Be Grass”
But oh who would come?
Probably only other grass
That lacks the confidence to know what it is
That it’s already the same starry stuff everywhere
I would just let wind into the room to awaken it
And maybe we would do The Wave
To bring home the metachronal rhythm of all existence

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