Early summer, dews drip down from
An unruly, pale grass. Frozen.
Over soil, speckled with dust.
But still raw, fresh, clear, and precious.
It is Mother Nature's tear.
All that does not matter. It's caught.
Very grime which showed their beauty
Understood their value. Helpless.
They're light, yet heavy. Loose, but packed.
Dews flicker with golden gleam.
Sun has risen over the sea.
Cool sea wind blew - droplets tremble,
Grass rustle. What a tranquil air.
but not so for that stalk of grass,
As they - sun, wind - grew harsher.
It watches lively budding plants,
Feels sea moisture but no nurture,
And burns by the sun's scorching rays.
Rustles as only it's sickly,
Waiting for death and decay.