A Drift

The thick scent of damp, warm grass
As it dries in the hot sun,

Is like what part of your life?
The lot with the chain-link fence,

Some trash, a bit of dog stink
Mixed in with that rank, sweet grass?

Or the sharp-cut squares of lawns
Green as jade in red-brick walls?

Or the weird patch of failed scruff,
Half-weeds, back of the ranch house?

Or whole fields, just mowed and rolled?
It’s not the same scent, not quite,

But it’s grass, the age of grass,
And you’re still in it, and it

Spreads, will spread as the woods burn,
Will creep through the roads and walls.

Grass drifts. It grows fast. It runs.
It takes hold of ground it gets

And hangs on. The ice will yield.
The fires will pass through and grow

More of it in their wake. Dunes
Of sand and waves of salt seas

Can eat at it, but it eats
Back and at the edge of shores,

Cliffs, wastes, woods, towns. When we fall,
Words and hosts, the hordes of troops

And folks on the run from troops,
The grass will be first to come

And take it all back. The grass,
This warm, green stink in the sun.