Noah

It's been a dry semester. Usually, my shoes are filled with it; the grass is most often bent by its weight.
But it's been kept hidden for some reason. Not that we should ever forget our sweet memories. Of dancing with it because a dance is appropriated to those without shame.
I cry remembering the time I watched myself first stained, then made clean in the same moment. Neither shoes nor grass cared to warn me of such duality.

But how worshipful is the grass that makes a life out of growing and clothing itself in the Rain?