The grass in my yard has met the blade
that bore its razor tongue for a shave.
Yet it still sprung up within a week
past the heels of my feet.
Be the grass!

Yesterday gone out with the trash.
Never to come back.
Today was beaten 40 lashes.
Soon its last breath shall be drawn.
Tomorrow has yet to be trod upon.
Be tomorrow.


Hate, the sting of a thousand ants
tapped dance on this delicate heart.
Cracked it open as an egg.
Love is the chic that emerged.
From a shell, a birth.
Be love.