To dawn, a dusk. To light, a dark. Not pure, not opposite, but soft. Understanding.
Ice coated the blades of the grass with a delicate sheen of fracturing cold. It spoke of death to the flowers, to the seeds, to the world, but it was just as young. The ice was crystals and sharpness to the grass, but the ice was ignorant and early and would do no harm, in the end.
For the grass was stronger than it looked, though it too was young. It was bullied and beaten and stepped on and broken, but it grew straight and silent, struggling alone. Though it was always surrounded by those who might understand, it stayed singular.

The ground was often cruel, but it could be beautiful, and the grass often saw these beautiful moment near the ground.
Little things.
Small things.
Things no one expected to see near dirt and filth and pestilence.
But things were the same everywhere, weren't they?
The grass saw love. The grass saw life, from beginning to end, just as soon and fast and slow as it happened. Over and over and over again.
Though there were bad times, too. Unfair. Unwanted. Unnecessary. Ice would come early as it had then, but stronger, and more furious. There would be pain. There would be fear. But try as it might, Winter could never silence the beauty for very long.

And the grass stayed on. For it was all the grass knew. For those small, important moments of beauty it saw between the shadows. For the sun, for the moon, for the stars in the sky.

The grass stayed on. For the grass hated.

And the grass loved.