Swaying in the breeze of those long departed,
living in a place that was once naught but dirt
The seeds planted in a place left long uncharted,
every week it seems, a new blade discarded
To think this place was once dirt.

Peering down from the window at our enclosed pen,
the master of this yard we call Earth does yawn
“A mowing is near…” the grass whispers “at least ten…”,
the whir of an ephemeral motor beckons above the din
But above it all, a resounding yawn.

“This is too fast!” the grass murmurs with dread,
but the course of this existence is quick, as fated
The sky breaks to release a rain shower in the mower’s stead,
a moment of peace before for all doomed to be dead?
Is it the promise of death, fated

That makes the rain shower feel so good?