I thought so years ago when I compared it to the special park
with the hills best for playing catch and running, oh the sun there
on those warm green uprisings was sweet in the mornings when
their depths were still wet; if I pushed my toes deep enough I could reach
the moistness, and the waterfalls were the best for secretive crawdads,
but this grass was best.
It stretched out from the last porch step all the way to the barn.
And that was only one direction. Behind the house it went up the fat round
hill which belonged to the bull. To the left it went to the road
and to the right it went over the hills and down to the sea. I could
smell the sea on the porch. Sea and grass. And sun. Weathered wood.
(Cella) There the blades showed their silvery sides....the air....with gentle gesture, grateful, perhaps, for the sweet scents the verdure offered up freely....