Greasy Grass Country

In the tongue of the Dakotah

it is the country of the grass.

The grass that’s greasy in the wind

For the way it slips and swirls

whispers in the breeze

catches light like waves

in a sea of opalescent green

It isn’t just the wind

there’s a feeling too that’s there

of a majesty beneath the sound

that slips within my soul.

I ask myself sometimes

is it an echo

of when the world came first to be?

A kind of grace note maybe?

On an instrument played by God

when he holds his finger on the key

plays a note so low it almost isn’t there.

I wonder too if others hear it

or is it only me?

I wish that I

could climb inside that note somehow

feel the world from there.

It is the elemental essence that I feel

I think.

A reminder

that spirit never sleeps

In the country of the grass

that’s greasy in the wind

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