It’s beautiful to imagine that one is grass, sprouting everywhere out of the earth, living in the wind and casting and receiving pollen in the wind pouring in from the distant sea.
It’s even more amazing to see oneself as both the grass and a little green leafhopper perching on a grass blade, in that vast, wind-swept sea — both of them at once, and both in movement through time and space, with different but joined histories.
Instead of fingers, we have exquisite seed.
Instead of words, we have never-ending movement that words cannot approach, because words don’t need to. They weren’t meant for this. This is where humans are at home. This is the grass that made us.
That is why all of its gestures speak.
One hears it brushing against one’s thighs and names it as that speech: grass. Each blade is a step. Each stalk is a step remaining behind in memory, which is knowing.
Each knowing a remembering.
You know this. It knows you.