Grasses

 

One would not wish
to be more than
the grasses.

 

First was star dust,
then the sun,
then mud

 

and water, mold
and mushroom,
then grasses.

 

Whether withered
and sere or
greening,

 

whether autumn,
summer, spring,
these blades

 

enfold their own
eternity.
Marsh or

 

pasture, mountain
meadow, always
something

 

holds and holds
They won’t let
go — we

 

call them grasses,
though some might
say God.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

Tom Montag is the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013, This Wrecked World, and The Miles No One Wants. He has been a featured poet at Atticus Review, Contemporary American Voices, Houseboat, and Basil O’Flaherty Review, and received Pushcart Prize nominations from Provo Canyon Review, Blue Heron Review, and The Lake.