Category Archives: Writing

I’ve lived on this lawn for fifteen seasons. I’m surrounded by my people and we sleep deeply in the winter. It’s often hard to tell just which I am, though. Am I a tuft? A single seed’s outcome? A blade? A six inch by six inch clump? Where I begin and and is made more complicated by the annual death time. The rains came this year just in time, I felt myself letting go, releasing my grip on the green that I hold in my mind. It’s the green that gets us through the death time. I feel the greatest envy for my fellows several lawns over who live under the ever-long greens. They can just look up and see that green is still there, for their remembrance. We, on our block, must contend with the belief alone that the trees above will be green again. And so we huddle together, we shrink, we sit under the slow avalanche, and hold our breaths. I don’t think I would make it if it were just me. If I were growing between a couple cracks in the sidewalk, with just some semblance of a me that couldn’t be wider than twenty blades. Not even enough to survive the Rabbit Horde on a jaunt. There is a part of me that appreciates disappearing for months, though. Even though it’s the death time. Most of my fellows can’t understand what I appreciate, they love the green so much. But they didn’t see what I saw, where I grew up sodding. The sun was always up, until the Giant Journey took me North. Or maybe they did and they’ve forgotten. But it’s hard to even remember where I came from, when new seeds come in every year. I can only hope to avoid being struck underneath by the Puncturing Thunder Roll. I’ve been lucky these fifteen seasons. I stand still, waving, tempting the Horde, releasing a few millimeters when the cats are away. We love the cats. I particularly love the cat that lays tense above me, and I feel that the Horde is the most far away at this moment. Though my fellows who have had to digest the bird pieces that this cat wasn’t interested in feel differently. I’m happy to be back, in the green, even if I pine for the dead-looking trees and the avalanche cold. It looks like it’s time for the weekly Smelly Rotary Haircut. I must go and once again leave part of me behind. May my blades meet blades with composure and acceptance.