On Touching Grass

I put my feet in the grass today
It was spongy and soft
Is it different from the grass back home
Or am I different, and seeing it anew?

I hesitated, just a little, before slipping off my shoes
Aware that I was breaking a Rule about how Adults act
This tiny transgression, a rebellion

I’ve driven past this patch of grass a hundred times
I park beside it to eat lunch, or watch the cars or write poems
but today the spirit moved me to stand on it
not in conquering, but in celebration

So often, all my feet feel under me is concrete, tile
or sometimes shifting sand — the feeling of something
alive beneath me was glorious and new and
old at the same time.

When my stomach did it’s little gurgle
to remind me I have other priorities today
I slipped my shoes back on
And went about getting on with it

But not before leaning down
And selecting a flower from those the tree refused
A tiny orange fan, not yet brown
And pressed it into the back of a notebook

On the tree, they’re so bright and translucent
they seem to make the light rather than catch it
While feathery, fern-y leaves shuffle beneath them
Leaving just enough space to see sky

I’m not sure why I took the flower
Though I’m grateful the tree let it go
To remind me on some far-off future afternoon
To slip out of my shoes once in a while.