When the little blades pierce the air,
Or when the lush green is rolled out
                like a mossy carpet,
Rich and alive,
It licks the rim of a glass house
And fizzes from a hand in celebration,
Pity the pretty bubbles die.

It runs from you like a little beast,
But grows into a pale yellow monster,
It exists and it jeers,
It retreats and it abandones.

But you hope it returns,
And you hope that it's evergreen.