Crayola Grass

I smell the sweet scent of grass, cut under the California sun
Transporting me to when I was six, standing out in the light
Of the hot summer, manning the lawnmower


For the first time.
Shielding my eyes, I looked at the sky, sapphire blue, wanting to ensure

That some being, whether a lone bird or God himself



Would witness my feat.
I was old enough, strong enough, big enough

To be given responsibilities, my freedom.
Lying in the grass today, feeling the playful tickle of young blades, I close
My eyes
And hear a tourist, the indistinct murmur of Spanish, reminding me of Miami, home



And the shock I first felt when I moved there, knowing nothing







Except maybe hola
And of the first time I tried Chipotle, the tingling heat of salsa, paralyzing my taste buds
I open my eyes, I am still on the grass, observing,
Hearing the chorus of birds, their voices sweet,

The rush of cars speeding by, their lights searching for the right directions



The methodic rustle of a page being turned
I felt the pages of the smooth notebook glide underneath my hand
The sun again, its powerful rays on the nape of my neck
As I grab tufts of grass unconsciously, I feel each blade in between my fingers
My fist tightens, searching for inspiration beyond the foundations of my past.
I examine, appreciating its pure shade of green, and I,

Wanting to preserve this moment, this color, imagined it a crayon.
Creating persistent patches of moss pushing through concrete,

the letterings of the plaque emblazoned on the wall,
the parquet floors of the museums I once visited,
the stained glass windows I saw in church, amazed at the streams of color, in awe of the power of God,
I drew nature’s masterpieces—


Pine needles, vines of creeping ivy, majestic palms, even puny shrubs
This was Yosemite Park, which I visited when I was younger
And the Everglades, near to where I live now
This was the world at my fingertips, my own creation.





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