The Secret of Grass

When I was grass
I sucked up the letter “S”
swallowed it whole, let it slide
up my slender shoots, satisfied
with it’s slippery simplicity,
it’s shape, that one line squiggle,
standing upright and strong, savored
those saccharine scents of saffron,
smoke, and sage, imitated it’s sound
in the shifting and the stirring
of my swaying spears gossiping
in the long slow swim of summer.

When I was grass
and fully grown, my stalks
scattered seeds from shaggy heads
sighing in sacrificial supplication,
their stems sufficiently satisfied
with a stubbled sensation, solace
of a successful spill, during the slash,
sever and stack of harvest.

Perhaps the secret of grass
is found in the salubrious “S”,
in its vicissitude, it’s shivering
winter song, the stark soughing,
it’s somnolent sweeping semblance,
it’s sibilant suffering.

~ Diane Buchanan

Diane Buchanan is a poet and an essayist from Edmonton, Alberta. She is the author of two published books of poetry: Ask Her Anything and Between the Silences. She just recently moved into the city after having lived on a farm for thirty-six years.

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