I Am the Grass. Let Me Work
One of my favorite poems by Carl Sandburg (see the full poem here http://www.poetry-archive.com/s/grass.html ) came to mind on Saturday as a group of us cleaned up the cemetery at the Grand Rapids Home for Veterans. Neat rows of white markers stretch across a wide space. Some are detailed, providing rank, unit, and field of service; some have only a name and a date of death. It makes one think about the grass. There we were, working above ground. There they were, lying below it. Between us was the grass. It will be there when we, too, are underground. It will hide what we were, how we felt. There will be only a name and a few details. So why do we get so upset about things?