Art by Matilda Peng

The grass
brims like tears, striving
to reach the brightest up at night.
How great it is in its fullest creativity,
sprouting with magic movements.
I want to feel it, but,
blankly staring at the moon, it pierces
the shimmering white
and my attempting hand.

Vibrant, green blades
after whose dance the seeds ring,
and the echoes travel off from the center
like waves. Many times I have tried to caress
as lightly as possible
only to be ignored.
I guess cherishing it
is always impossible.

What is nearing with heavy steps,
a crowd moving through,
stomping this wishful greenery.
I look at it
bent down and withered,
dry and windless.

Then there comes
a gentle, life-fermenting air.
The grass breeds tirelessly from hidden spells
under the brown thickness.
It has changed, bursting more vigorously than ever.
Keep toiling so I can shut off my vagrant vessel.
Strike, strive, and stump; every movement
of the slim grassy tips
becomes beautiful under the moonlit stage,
all the more difficult to part with.
So I touch it softly. It is lush and feathery.
Later I
remember that tint of breeze.

The dancing green softens,
biting the spikes out of my arms,
and we keep counting the hours
until the sun veils its tendency, to the pages left unread,
to the many more moments of just it with no I.
From the tips of the verdant blades,
fixed sparkles
ferry a life.