Leaves of Grass

Rosslyn’s lawns and meadows are plentiful. Lots of leaves of grass. Carpeting open space. Receiving foot falls, paw and hoof prints. And yet we opt to plant ornamental grasses too. Few. Far between. But dramatic tufts of texture. Leaves or grass whispering in the subtlest of breezes.

Leaves of grass gossiping, dancing, demurring. Leaves of grass battered and beaten down to the ground by the rainiest summer in my memory. In anyone’s memory…

So many leaves of grass singing and pirouetting and arcing delicately, fluttering sensually.

With acres of tended lawns and acres of fields flowing with hay grass and wildflowers, why cultivate clumps of ornamental green and variegated leaves of grass. Why?

Why haiku in a field of words, poems in a thicket of tangled stories? Because they — grass and poetry — are necessary. Because they are what inspires us to live and love.

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. So medicine, law, business, engineering… these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love… these are what we stay alive for.

— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Leaves of grass, ornamental blades taller than I, whisper words that beckon. Words that invite pause and wonder and spine tingling yearning as inexplicable as it is irresistible.

And when, after the downpour, these cloud tickling leaves of grass for a moment or a day succumb to gravity, lay low and rest upon the earth, a stone wall, one another, I lay down with them and dream of lusty sunshine and bluebird skies. We will slumber and rekindle our confidence. Tomorrow we will reach again, we will stretch high until the tips of our being hum with sunlight and dance ecstatically in the breeze…