Wandering into the tall grass
With shears not meant to cut
I pushed and stepped
And stepped and shoved
My direction the only thing dashed
I wandered left
And wandered right
As the weeds took over my path
They seemed to know me
As I tramped them down
I heard screaming with each
One I smashed
“It’s always the grass,
“It’s always the grass,”
One of them cried
Disappearing under my boot
“They abandoned their brothers,
“To live in the open
“Among people that cut at their roots”
I got to a clearing—the path widened out
Ahead did a tractor invade
And for the first time it hit me
For the first time it mattered
Before me,
  —lay a million dead blades

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)