BLUE-EYED GRASS
On the cusp of this hill
where pieces of blue-eyed grass
fall from heaven and no matter how
I try to approach that epicenter
of blue verging on violet,
that elusive crest of blue
moves to the next rise,
and the next, like a skittish rainbow
elusive to the end, like my life.
Who will even read this?
I have long since lost faith.
I have no evidence.
It has eluded me
like those thick concentrations
of flowers on distant hillsides,
painting bright idyllic pictures,
and bucolic landscapes,
but just under the lens.
They are not stars.
Still, I marvel when I find
a mutant strain of blue-eyed grass
devoid of color, quite like the stars,
or snow and I think
maybe it was all worth it after all.
A patch of blue
in the field of consciousness.
And blue equals luck:
it wards off the evil eye,
it wards off death
and mishap.
May 10, 2010
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