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Tall Grass in Late August
February 28, 2021
Look up, before the sky, made of fluttering blades of grass, becomes itself again
Before the yellow becomes white, before the chill of the wind is too much for your summer clothes
For what is the pang of the end if not joy
If not the reason you are here
If not the thing that brings you hope
If not the reason you keep going
Look up, one last time, through the whisps of your eyelashes splashed with sun,
So that the year may make children of us all again.
© Danie K., Belle, MO
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