As I watch every blade of grass ripple through the wind, I note every second ticking to a monotonic tune.
I breathe in air that is shared across an array of living things.
It travels across the land from people into soil, soil into wheat, wheat into bread.
From cattle into butter, spread across security on top of platters feeding hope.
It travels from a timeline before mine, across camps that housed the same loaves with a different scale of stale.
Where intention became neglection and the blades of grass turned to steel, iron and discomfort.
As the storm sweeps across, lives are lost quicker than the time it took for one to finish a fictional fairy tale they were reading.
For the plot thickened and the book forgotten, as life got in the way and the chance to question about the end-finale had been lost.
We thought “It could only have been misplaced,” when actually it was stolen.
But I’m watching the grass as I breathe in this shared air, of the murderer who murdered my imagination and left me riddled with despair.
For I see the same sunrise come up as dusk drowns it and I out.
And do too the wicked have the right, to come from the ground up, as the light says goodnight.
When the wind turns to storm and the cars around me take flight.
When the homes I invest in crumble to the ground and kill all the people that provide it with ideas.
And as I lay on the grass, I was neither in a car nor the house,
I simply was laying on the grass, and I remembered that nature was present here, and so was all life with it and it too will come and die and be born again, as I breathe in that shared air.
That shared air that gassed good people.
That shared air that killed millions.
That shared air that birthed ingenuity.
The original, the clever and the Inventive.
As I lay on the blades that cannot cut me, I feel the wind’s embrace, and all that ever will be, shall be nature’s doing and on that bed of grass I’ll find comfort in.