I will never step on my lawn.
The short bristles act as strong stalks;
Protector of milk-washed glass grapes.
Dry wind builds; stalks now firm and sharp,
Housing morning dew and crisp heat,
For the miracle greeting dawn.
I sit upon the bank, criss-crossed,
Waiting for olive green flippers,
To follow their instinctive waves,
Guided by nothing but oneness.
I am not wary, but cautious.
We humans need more consciousness.
