Leaves of grass that dried in pleasing and unusual patterns on the bank of our nearby creek.

Isaiah 40 7 Withered hath grass, faded the flower, For the Spirit of Jehovah blew upon it, Surely the people [is] grass; 8 Withered hath grass, faded the flower, But a word of our God riseth for ever. -Young's Literal Translation

Even knowing I am grass

I want to be the leaf twisting pleasingly as I curl and dry

hanging gracefully as the wind blows by

falling lightly as dust motes down

to the mother, the welcoming ground.

And my spirit to spiral away

on return flight to who can say.