We are freaks that freak out
When we are too close
Unknowing that claustrophobia
Of a little locality is what uproots
A meadow of little grass roots
And love, isn’t it a grassroots movement
Of how underground fibers hold
Together the beautiful blades
That radiate from nodes
And rise towards the morning sun
For some people
The blades are just a garden lawn
While for others, they are switchgrass
And for the rare believers, elephant grass
And for the endangered romantics
It is a grove of golden bamboo.
