were that i were as determined as the grass,
which grasps the soil from shallow roots,
contends with insects climbing up the shoots,
stamping around the base, burrowing the
nearby soil,
with the rain which never feels gentle 
to the grass, but can be
harsh, especially when wind,
its mischievous accomplice, comes with it,
not to mention me–
the human who comes along 
with my loud machine to bisect 
the grass, the cut fragment falling
to die in the dirt,
yet the grass keeps growing,
refusing to yield,
standing tall despite the attacks
by creatures and Mother Nature,
despite my heavy feet pressing down,
as it survives under a relentless summer sun
and the dormancy of winter