Within a Tuft of Grass is an inclusion poem, a reflection on how life is best lived in close proximity.
Within a Tuft of Grass – Inclusion Poem
To exclude is to slice someone away from the loaf, children in the classroom scoffing when Johnny can’t spell P E E P L E. The limp heel is only good in shreds for the ducks peddling behind Mama on the pond. He goes home and kicks the dog, Go away Milly, no one wants you here. Playgrounds, factory floors, churches, we huddle with pointing fingers, we fell any given trunk, sapling, chick, person. How often, did your chest inflate over someone’s stupidity? For a minute you soared. To at least one person, you are unlovable, to you, my neck is for the chop. Dooming is the theft of light. Some people only walk on stilts. You do. Somedays. Cut someone’s head off and kick it down the street. It’s fun for a while until someone brushes past your skin bare-handed as they pick up scraps of you. This time, a child took the ball and brought me home. You can be lucky like that. An old man told me that if you’re alone on a mountain top, you’d be glad for anyone, no measuring tape, no weighing balances, no checks. Just for the warmth of another body to be closeby when the night falls and dawn would blind your bones if it wasn’t for a simple conversation with anyone. To include is to sew someone into a bed of flowers, people on the street rallying when Mae can’t remember her name but they want to hear her sing a song to break up time and taint the wind. She goes home and feeds the child. Come here Billy, tell us more. Street corners, college canteens, parks, we mingle with giving digits, we blend any fruit, plastic, rock, child. How often did my stomach butterfly over some root’s viridity? For a minute, I rest. To at least one person, she is lovable, to him, their thinning hair is less work for the barber. Loving is the art of inclusion. Some gems bed bellow the gaze. You do. Somedays. Suture someone’s back and lay it on a field of cotton. It’s hard for a while until someone turns to wash up on the beach beside you and the sun drinks the drops off your skin and all you’re left with is the pearly salt. The tuft of grass told me that it’s best to flock like the birds and read the stories of the stones, and of how the fires sure up a bath full of hot water and bubbles for your days and the long nights. If you can / add words to your lips and skin to the tips of your fingers, a simple conversation with anyone tufting.