Grace and Peace to you.
The grasses in the meadow remember everything.
They don’t need grave markers.
Stones will be ground to sand, dragged to the sea.
But the everlasting grasses keep whispering,
passing along generations the stories, the names.
They have no way to recall the rich and sheltered,
who left monuments of other kinds,
whom they do not know, who have never clung
to them for sustenance, turned to them for beauty,
hidden in them for life, joined them in praise.
They call out the names of the martyrs of the earth,
those who have fallen among grasses,
who pass without fame or memento,
those with courage to flourish then fade, like them,
who join in the song of faith, merely singing.
They are not polished names that shine or ring like brass,
but names of straw, earthy, simple and mortal.
Truth is not a notion, but names. It is not carved in stone,
even in a distant shrine. It is remembered.
The name of God is murmured among the grasses.
Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes