(no subject)
I like the grass long. Occasionally I'll wander out onto the golf course at night when the grass hasn't been cut for awhile and take my shoes off so I can stand around barefoot and look at the stars. I realize this is a very silly thing to do, but I like it. I also like long grass because when the grass hasn't been cut, my sinuses do not rebel. Right now, there's a guy on a riding mower cutting the golf course, a guy with a weed-whacker "trimming the verge," and three people at the picnic table trading DUI stories and smoking the world's most offensive cigarettes. I have to stop typing every ten words to either sneeze or wipe my eyes. And this is not helping me write my English paper, nor is it aiding in my haphazard attempts to pack.
But since that was a rant, I'll leave you with a highly appropriate poem.
Grass
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
--Carl Sandburg