Spring is visiting soon and the blade of grass waits eagerly to belong. Small, short, and the only sliver of green amongst the grass that died last fall. Emerging from the earth as the snow melts, seeking to make its home amongst the spring air. So close to being viewed by the sun, touched by warmth and dragged up by tongues of fire to take its place amongst the flowers and trees, beneath the stars as a child of nature, the grass is pushed and pulled by the breeze on windy days, trampled on rainy ones, coverd by feet running, but persisting still. Persisting still because these trials are not enough to steal the green from this grass. Because survival is a dream. To keep going until you reach the sun.
But then a hand reaches down. A human; predator of greed. They even keep bouquets. Who could kill a flower?
The hand reaches down. A body bending but not snapping like the grass does as fingers close around its base. Cutting it short there. Eternity becomes just a little while and the grass dies before the sun can ever come.
The human holds the blade of grass in their fingers, inspecting, expecting something more. So the story ends like that? The grass has gone and died? Was it not bred to survive? Not strong enough; so that’s why it died.
Writing and photography by Hazel J. Hall.