“I walk over the green hillsides,
I lie down on the harsh
sun-flavored blades and bundles
of grass;
the grass cares nothing
about me, it doesn’t want
anything from me,
it rises to its own purpose,
and sweetly, following the
single holy dictum:
to be yourself, to let the sky be the sky,
to let a young girl be a young girl freely -
to let a middle-aged woman be,
comfortably, a middle-aged woman.
Those bloody sharps and flats –
those endless calamities of the personal past,
BAH! I disown them from the rest
of my life, in which I mean to rest.”
- from Grass
by, Mary Oliver