The Grass Was Dry

Hay pressed into the book of summer
but reading it now
hard to believe
a fiction in blades.

The grass here died and lies
indisposed upon the earth
in a suspended reality
between growth and
decomposition.

This made frame looks down
as if from a great height,
from heaven perhaps,
where judgements are made
because in hell no one cares
enough.

Hay to hay and
grasses to grasses
life moves fast and
nothing lasts
this grass is dry and
pressed flat so add water
and stand back.