writing

Blades of Grass

What I notice is there is so much to notice.

Blades of grass surround me.
The birds fly across the bay.
I am am am afraid to crack open.
I hear the naysayer's voice
Don't listen
The blades of grass blow in the breeze
The breeze tickles the blades of grass
A fog horn sounds in the distance
The horn gets closer
Bee buzzes past my head
The blades of grass whisper shhhhh to the naysayer
A spider crosses my page
Wind licks the corner of my paper up for a moment,
And gently puts it down.
Shadows of the tree fall forward onto the blades of grass
A bee buzzes past me.
Fog rolls, only a whisper of it, into the bay
a single motorboat's wake cut through
the calm of the waters.
The fingers of the fog reach further inside the bay.

A fog horn blowing louder

The airplane overhead

What I notice is
the blades of grass allowing the wind to
blow through.
They do not resist.

What I notice is
More fog: misty, vaporous, clouding
obscuring
the view of the other side of
the bay.

Two fog horns sound off in succession.
They call to each other
like 2 deep-throated birds.

The hills of Marin County
roll like a woman
like the creases in a baby's fat legs
like the earth meeting the sky.

I feel sadness welling up inside me
not sure why.
I resist it.
I am not a blade of grass.

The wind picks up and begins
to bend the blades of grass

The fog thickens, builds
A fog horn sounds and through the fog,
as if it floats on air,
comes a boat.
Large, white, clean, strong.

The hills of Marin County
are being wrapped in the fog.
The sun shines on me.

The hills of Marin County
many colors -
tan, like sand
deep green of the pines
orange, touches of red.
The hills of Marin County
dip down into the
San Francisco Bay.

The hills of Marin County
have been here longer than I
They do not resist the fog that wraps them and
hides them from my eyes.

Cutting across the blue, steel blue gray
of the waters of the bay
an oil tanker glides.
Here now.
Now hidden by the fog.

What I notice is myself:
noticing
collecting
observing
running away
running back

The blades of grass,
the wind whispers through them
beneath the fog
making the gentlest rustling -
telling me to laugh,
and live and love and
not resist.