Grass

 

There is something in the smell of cut grass and gasoline,

Of petrol clinging to the skin like paspalum.

It is the perfume of bruised knees and grazed cheeks,

Of love and unkindness before they had names.

It is a taste, too:

The metallic bitterness of dirt and blood;

The ragged burn of throat and limb.

For sacred and profane are both set apart,

Are both admired and despised,

Inspired and resigned.

Here, from cracked pavement: a weed;

Here, from crumbled mortar: a miracle.

Bound by the high grass,

We winnow while the chaff blooms.