I don’t wish to be strong.
Falling, wind gust knock me over
nothing more honorable
humble
than that of grass
bending, adapting
enduring season after season
never-ceasing browns, yellows, brilliant greens
stones lie upon it
but,
weaving the way
through solid center,
breaking it so
using thoughts of water,
thought.
Never lost,
reaching for sun, for life.
How can something
so lowly,
so plain,
so overlooked,
be something
so beautiful?

It seems to me
everything is strong.
My arms, branches, branching,
reaching for that same sun.
Please.
Please,
just don’t let me be stone.