Ah blade of grass I sought you out

From all the others.

Standing so tall and firm against the

Summer’s breeze.

You look like all the others –

Countless green stems bending to and fro

Taking heed on every command

The wind gives them, but not you, strong

And never yielding blade.

And if I should pluck you from your

Homey roots, your last victory would be

My bleeding hand.

You’ll wither, then die — leaving a

Scar upon my flesh as a searing reminder –

You are the victor.

So, I’ll caress you gently as the breeze does.

Watching you grow high above the others.

Proud, ever proud, your growth is boundless

As is my love.

Tags: blade of grass, jone victoria, the victor