Grass is humble, always grass.

So that we’d know it anywhere –

Africa or Italy, walking

In and our of time.

Blink, and a century is gone.

The whole delicate web that makes

a world – intricate,

insistent as this pulse

inside my wrist –

continues without effort.¬

There’s no weariness now,

no sense that I must shoulder guilt,

assume responsibility.

I have put down the world, grown lighter.

I have become ‘brightface’.

The spirit moves within,

and in and out of time:

this life, that one;

rich, poor,; speaking English

or a tongue I have never dreamed

my lips could find as familiar as fruit.¬No matter where, or how,

only the why:

that I should grow within,

the ‘I’ that is this humble spirit,

swift as grass, humble,

certain – everywhere grass,

under the bright and changeless sky,