Life and Death

Life and Death

An Ode to Grass

Grass, so often ignored,
Under-appreciated and tread underfoot.
It’s not understood how wonderful you are.

You wave back and forth in the wind
And sing, carefree as a small child
But mysterious as death: a whole field
Moving as one and whispering, whispering,
Whispering what?
Not to be known.

Somewhere in the dark
An animal is making a meal out of you.
Not the most glorious purpose,
To be devoured and digested,
But still a noble one.

Somewhere in the light
Children run, laughing and shouting,
Through a tall patch of grass.
Somewhere else, far away,
A fight takes place in short, green grass.

How strange that these disparate experiences should be united
By grass. How strange that you are everywhere
But noticed nowhere
All at once.

And how strange that you do not seem to mind,
Singing your mysterious songs despite the fact
That no one will appreciate them,
Or maybe singing them for that very reason.

It must be nice to avoid the judgment of others.


Noticed by none,
You trap dust and dirt from the air.
The most thankless job,
And a nearly endless one.

Because until the Earth’s surface is calm,
And no animals remain
To stir up the dirt –
Until even the insects
Have ceased their busy work –
Until a foreign observer
Might mistake the Earth for a still, silent garden –
Your work will continue.

Not the most glorious purpose,
To toil endlessly,
But still a noble one.

Greg Johnston