Grass

his 'hearts' are many but his words are few,

my hopes of chatter are like the morning dew.

it dries in the heat of the angry midday's rays,

i ask: what's the grass's reality? when do i graze?

- the turf at dawn, moistly sentimental and messy,

or the manicured afternoon, all trim and prissy?

its late in the evening, and so dry is the weather, 

the heart pines for rainfall, i'm at end of my tether.