Scent Among The Grass
It’s strange to smell this freshly cut lawn,
Triggering memories of when I was young.
A 7-year-old baller running through vegetation,
On a soggy and ash-looking Autumn afternoon.
Now crowned gray and sitting by the window,
My head tilts past the Monstera deliciosa.
A voluntary recurrent thought is assumed,
I rabidly sniff up the volatile compounds.
Nature’s death emits vaporous tears, scented,
Defense chemicals, a cacophony of screams.
In this cruel world, the barbaric mower’s dream,
Of toast and oats; rice, roast, and alcohol.
Grazing cows told me grass is like water,
The latter a little shy prodding warm flashbacks.
If no one else in the world agrees nature is key,
I exist as I am, sniffing grass, content.