In my backyard when I was little, I picked up a big flat rock from young green grass
and found pitiful yellow stalks twisted and pressed flat, pushed back into the ground they had fought to leave behind,
smothered by the shade that can’t understand what it is to grow out, up and up, and feel the sun down to your roots.
Unable to feed themselves they looked dry, dead, but were somehow soft still, somehow living.
I carried the rock away and kept coming back to watch the grass grow.