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Poems

October 2001

Grass

by Elizabeth Spires

I walked in the waist-high grass
where a million blades
sang in green cacophony.
Too many voices sang.
And in the din, I thought,
we are as grass,
as simple as grass,
our voices will be lost
and all things pass…

I desired then
to be silent and alone,
like a stone spilled
by time into a field
the mower slowly
scythes, a stone
completely unto itself,
warmed by the sun,
shining in the sun.

Elizabeth Spires' new book of poems, The Wave-Maker, was published by Norton in July 2008.


more from this author

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 20 October 2001, on page 32

Copyright © 2012 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com

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