Why the grass shivers

but a blanket is over our heads over our entire bodies
clothing of warm dirt water green air
and the wind is
ruffling clothes against body and tickling thread-like
and the playful sun dips in and out of its cotton-thick coverage
warm so that if you closed your eyes you could still feel when the sun
beat down
hard and when it ducked away
the dapples of light on the floor spread out star-like
a gentle fireworks display
as light fades in and out
and on and off through the leaves
rustles not booms or pops

because a sharp cry of agony intrudes from far-off reconstruction
age-soaked benches weep bearing coin-sized insects
a warrior falls
now flightless a beetle crumpled plated in bronze jewel-emerald
though not as emerald as the jigsaw leaves or even mud and
watery shards of grass
shorn brethren dripped in meaningful trails on the concrete smells of
heady suburbia
maybe no meaning after all
sometimes trees peel down all the way through moss and bark
and even trunk to the barest of innards smooth
pale infantile
hums of industry of cars of buildings of conditioning of refuse
out by the wind
and the wind is
picking up through grass leaves and clothes hair threat-like
rustles not booms or pops

Annie Lu was born and raised in Southern California, but she dreams of cooler, cloudier climes. She has won two Gold Keys, one in poetry and one in humor, in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and writes for both her school’s literary and journalistic magazines. She enjoys long walks with her ravenous, rambunctious puppy and writing pieces that other people may never see.

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