Blades of Grass

Why are grasses called blades?

Not in edge nor malice can they be acute enough to qualify

As weapons

Or harsh death

Rather, grasses are tendrils

The earthen mother’s feelers oozing from her skin

The crust of which can prove more bladelike than any grasses

Or is it to say that the organs by which a thing feels

Glycoprotein or lipid, finger or tongue,

Those are the blades capable of real spite

In deathly tongues do men die.

In fearful invasion do cells tell apoptosis

In the hand is a true blade carried.

So is it, then, that those grasses aren’t yet the blades;

But that they mean to hold them?

Can a blade be green?

It must be said that when a blade is thrust, some green does glisten

For no life could be taken without envy

Then, the greenest blades, all around and at my feet,

Should they ever stop thrusting,

Life would lose its colour

Should life lose its colour?