the blades of grass
down to their still points -
each one has a center,
each is individual,
so none become displaced,
though waves of wind sweep over,
bending them silver red green gold
in turn, though they bow in sequence,
then spring back -
each one has its anchor in the ground,
each its source of nutrient,
each its place in the land
to rise up into everything it is
and shimmer the collective dance.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 23, 2022
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