A blade of grass stands upon a wall in a field. It's an ordinary wall, old and forgotten, it's fallen into disrepair. She grew there, in between the brick and mortar, not because she wanted to, but because she had to.
From this wall, she can see the whole world. She can see the wise old oak tree that towers in the center of the field, a lonely king. She can see the forest of pines just beyond the sea of green beneath her. Below, she can see her friends, who enjoy each other's company, who laugh and sing and cry and shout. They know not of her existence and they never will. She can see the home of the Old Man who, every day, journeys to a stump just below the wall. Every day, the Old Man smokes a cigarette and talks. Not to anyone, or to anything, she supposes, but really to himself. Every day, the Blade of Grass listens.
Today is a day like any other, she thought, as the Old Man approached, cigarette in hand. Before long, he began to speak. He doesn't look at her, of course. To him, she is just another part of the decay. But when he speaks, his words aren't for the wind; they are heavy, anchored things that seep into every pore of her, even into the mortar of her home. She drinks his words the way she drinks the morning dew, finding more life in his quiet grumbles than in all the shouting of her friends below. And when his cigarette glows, it is the only star she can see during the day.
He speaks with a low and gravelly rumble about people she'll never know; people who, much like the wall, have crumbled and moved on. As he speaks, his smoke drifts about, dancing on the wind with a whirl of sultry energy, an exhalation of his memories. Sometimes, if the wind blows just right, it wraps around her, enveloping her in a warm, gray shroud of ink and old secrets.
His words are soft and low, expressions of love and sadness and admiration. He speaks of the way the light hits the pines at dusk, or the gentle glow of the sun at dawn, and how the wall is the only remnant of a garden that once stood here. He talks to the stones that litter the ground, as if they could ever know the beauty of tulips and roses. She hangs on every word, every pause, every vibration, breathing in his melancholy, his sadness, like some rare, dark nectar. He talks of a world that's left him behind, all alone, forgotten. His words resonate within her very fibers.
Hours pass, and as the sun begins to fall and the world grows dim, the Old Man begins to stand, resting his hand upon the wall. It presses against the stone, mere inches from her roots, its warmth radiating out, rivaling that of the quickly setting sun. She did not flinch or recoil, she welcomed his grasp. In this moment, they were something akin to kindred spirits; two weary souls resting upon an ancient ruin.
The Old Man takes the final drag of his cigarette, the soft silky light of its ember flare illuminating the deep crevices of his face, before putting it out against a brick. He didn't toss it away, instead choosing to tuck the spent filter into a crack in the wall just near her base, an ashen monument to the evening they shared together and the words spoken. The Old Man turned to leave, his woolen coat brushing against her body, and murmured his final words, "thank you," before making his way back home, leaving a vast silence in his wake. As the night began to fall, so came the frogs and the crickets and the owls to fill it. The frogs sang to the sky, the crickets to the field, and the owls to the pines, but she remained silent, a solitary witness, holding within her the weight of a world that only two souls had ever known.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 3:55 PM UTC
It ebbs and flows
And throes and slows
It hides the deepest darkness
How far you'll go
To know, to grow
Beneath its silver surface
You'll find that no
Truth is bestowed
Where the bitter waters flow
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 3:43 AM UTC
I may never soar
In that alabaster sky,
Or its billow menagerie,
In its brilliant eye.
I may never see
The end of the storm.
No quiet, no relent,
No lapse of any form.
This desire in me,
A sepulchral sting,
To be known, to be seen,
To be loved, the only thing.
Resigned am I
To hover, to float.
I shall know no lover,
No friend, no hope.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 3:40 AM UTC