Blade of Grass

The sun hits my face; I feel alive again. There was rain and now I'm refreshed and ready. The color of clouds appears to be a pretty shade of pink and purple. The sun isn't setting but the clouds are different. Different in shape; different in color. Each is a individual. The wonder of the willow is beckoning me to chase destination--a destination I can't seem to reach. I'm stuck deep, swaying back and forth as the rain falls off my shoulders. My meaning, my purpose? I have none. I want to be more than I am and go where I should go.

Time tells me to stay right where I am but the wind pulls me still. Butterflies plea with me to go one way while the comfort of the willow begs me to stay within it's reach. Children dance and play nearby. I watch them grow and learn the harsh reality of the world--how it's not all peachy. In fact, they begin to find cherries, unripeness lacing the blueberries, and fermenting oranges, too.

Yet, the sun still peaks over the hill and into the leaves that stretch low, gently caressing my cheek. The Look. The Look I remember so well. The Look is what I never want to forget but the one I want to leave so dearly it bristles me. Look stares at me, waiting for an answer when I have none.

Yet, amidst the gravel, amidst the toil, there is one that remains: Happiness. She moves swiftly through crowds by crescent shaped lips or the sound of music. Happiness brings back peaches. Reminds me I have a purpose. The Willow wasn't a liar but a wondrous protector. The color of clouds will change. I realize only life in the present is what matters most.

But I'm merely a blade of grass.