Summary: A Poem
Genre: Blank verse
Word Count: 300
I knew a blade of grass once;
he stood proud in my yard, not bending
as the others did,
not yet browned by cruel sun,
on the day I was to cut him down.
He was taller than the others,
and should have been my first victim,
but I hesitated, started
on the other side, until at last
I could no longer avoid
that plucky blade of grass.
I went down on the grass myself,
laid flat on the new-trimmed cuttings
with one arm propping my chin up,
and two fingers on the other measuring
that stubborn grassling.
I looked at him, and he looked back,
and I saw all there was to see,
and he sized me up as being a great deal smaller than himself,
and he was right, though I didn’t know it.
I left him there, for I knew that soon
he’d wither with the rest,
or be some wandering animal’s dinner,
or my foot’s path,
so I wasn’t sad when I saw him
die in autumn,
And when the tear came to my eye,
it was from the remnant pollen,
not that blade of grass I knew,
that brash and cocky sliver of green
which grew in spite of me.
His end was here at last,
but it was all his,
not clipped or trimmed,
but as long and harsh as he could make it,
his existence a well-loved thorn,
and even in his demise I could not glower,
for I was not yet as big as he.