Throng of Thrips

 

The grass is green,
but I’m no fool.

It takes rain, bleeding
grey, for growth.

We all need water,
but I thirst for more.

A season of sun
is never yellow.

My pallid flesh
absorbs the rays,

but it’s not
the brightest days

that teach of
inner strength.

My roots are thick
though my leaves

are worn. I’m aware
the seasons come

and go. The earth’s
a spicket, pouring

out–all we’ve dug.
Our wells are deep.

So, I sow my soul
in thought and deed.

We’re all authorities,
steeped–of nothing.

And this
is all

I,
truly, know—

© Grace Black

Poetry Month continues, and this is Day 20 of NaPoWriMo for me. Today’s prompt was to write a poem that states what you know.

30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.

Love and Ink,

Grace

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