a clearing of open green and yellow grass

overgrown and sagging with dew

and unrestrained beneath the sun

and idly and fiercely alive

and bearing countless grateful creatures in its belly,

and you arrive worn-out

from painful and unsure steps through

noticeably less inviting ground

of rocks and exposed roots and thorns

and little seeds made of thorns that hold on for dear life

to your precious clothes and torture your precious fingers

and were obviously created by a god who has no concern

for your precious fingers or your precious clothing

but for life and its ceaseless drive to continue

and laying your body into the damp, lazy grass

and feeling the tickle on your skin

so many gentle blades forming scratchy pillows

enough to rest but not

get lost in sleep

just a dream of ease and relief

earned and evidenced

by a body, yours, full of scars

from less inviting blades

and in dreaming you float

not above or below anything

and

if you’ve done it right

you say thank you

to the brambles and branches

and rocks and thorns

who were kind enough

to make an itchy alive mass

of yellow-green wet grass

such as this

feel like an undiscovered home