This is the grass your feet are planted on. <br />You paint it orange or you sing it green, <br />But you have never found <br />A way to make the grass mean what you mean. <br /> <br />A cloud can be whatever you intend: <br />Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye. <br />But you have never found <br />A cloud sufficient to express the sky. <br /> <br />Get out there with your splendid expertise; <br />Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less. <br />Inhuman nature says: <br />Inhuman patience is the true success. <br /> <br />Human impatience trips you as you run; <br />Stand still and you must lie. <br />It is the grass that cuts the mower down; <br />It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.<br /><br />Adrienne Rich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rural-reflections/
