—after Roseann Lloyd, 1944–⁠2025

After days of rain, then hot sun,
the common grass leaps up,
a gift of the dark earth.
The grass grows super-fast
like on time-lapse videos.
Suddenly a swath of grass harbors
dozens of little dandelion suns,
bright as butter.
I beg the lawn not be cut.
Leave the mower in the garage.
Let the grass be
a wild child’s hair.
Come, lie by me,
loaf, as Whitman writes.
On the million soft blades of grass,
we need no blanket.
Who cares if ants march
two by two over our arms, hurrah!
Let’s stay all day
on this dais, this green realm.
There is nothing
so free as grass.