the Grass Spoke

Like a crisp of fog catching a seep of sun's breath, he would soon evaporate...

          So how could I recognize him among those masses of cloud above? And when they pour down as rain, which drop would I catch in my palms? If ever I catch him, would he not slip from my hands again? So could I still cull him from among those creeks of precipitations? Or would I just let him flow away to the seas and the oceans? And like a striving grass in the arid, let myself be deprived of even scanty dewdrops?

          Only the teardrops I have not poured out yet would withstand me. Oh, how I wish I were something else! The bristle cone which exudes character and deserves some respect; it is a driftwood that cannot be washed ashore, and it is a deadwood that storms cannot pierce but only polish. The sequoia - its magnificence is towering and its spirit is pervading. I could be the rose as well; its fragrance is cherished, its beauty is adored  and its essence is symbolic. Or even those that were not of sylvan character or regal insignia: the Venus fly trap - it is beastly within its alluring aura; its tricky hinged leaves snap shut when an insect lands in the hairs, it is barbarous yet it is just. The poison ivy - it contains liquid that keeps animals away, it is selfishness but it is self-defending. For how would it stay in existence when some brute have taken it away? And yes, the swamp marigold has no petals at all! But at least it is in a swamp.

          Not like me...who continually longs and yearns for a rain shower. Even  the cactus is better than me for it lives where there is an oasis; surely its green fleshy stem is abundantly stored with water, and it would not want. And the alfalfa too, it can strive through long dry spells for its roots can go deep as 25 feet to reach water; their lush pigment would never fade away, it would keep them teeming with ardor and brilliance, charming in the eyes of every creature.

          Now the reds and the yellows  that are oft hidden by the chlorophyll show up on me. And my leaves would sway with the breeze as a gesture of beseeching the majestic heavens. And I would wait, just wait, because I could not cry out to entreat even a single drop of rain to fall on me! I could but crave for its pity, and dream...

          Of that fog that would soon evaporate, it is really hard to tell myself that he must be gone when he is here, captivated in a dungeon inside of me. And it is tormenting to try to let him go because I know that he would haunt me eternally. He is as timid as me, with only our intent gazes to expose our feelings yet he conquered my mind that created him as a figurative masterpiece of fathomless longing. It is amazing how innocence peeps out of his eyes and it is wonderful how sweetness is mirrored in his face! It is beyond thinking how enchantment is spread out through his radiance, bewitching even the dumbest from among the creatures. It is miraculous how profoundness in his silence deluged the superficiality of everything and how comeliness in his reserved miens procure amiable affection. I just can't let him go...

          If only I could tell him...then brown pigments wouldn't creep throughout my leaves.

          I just couldn't. I don't understand and I know no one could. Maybe it is just that I am meant to be left here as he would vanish. I am amid those which bloom and bear florid embellishments. Those ornaments of beauty that adorn the essence of a pulsating life, those endowed with dazzling hues. But I am not one of them... I only hide in them.

          So if only I can look at the seeds of time and tell which among them will grow and which will not, I rather would have chosen to be one of them. So that I can be free from perplexities and pains.

          Now my leaves are falling down. Sooner or later they would decay. But should I long for the rain still? For how would I completely rot when there is nothing but the whipping of the sun? He must shower me so that I may decompose. He must clothe me with soothing coolness so that I maybe comfortable in my repose. Only then could I be useful to the soil. And the soil alone would know the reason why I existed. Only it would know how those raindrops had meant so much to me, and only it would know how those which bloom around me have been far better than me.