Soft green lances of grass
Sweet and supple, I imagine.

They tower up into the sky,
Reaching, reaching, reaching,
A contrast to the cold hard dark rocks in the lake.

One stretches up,
The other hunkers low.
But it is not like they have a Choice in the matter.
That is how, why, and wherefore they were created.
We all have a different purpose in life.

me.gs