A Girl Can Never Own a Piece of Grass
She must know

A girl can never own a piece of grass, She can’t pluck it from the ground, and place it in her pocket. Not to say she wouldn’t, But if she wanted To tear it from its roots, She couldn’t Or if she wanted to take it home, She shouldn’t.
A girl can never own a piece of grass, Even though sometimes it seems like she could. She might hold it above her head, as if she owned it. But she doesn’t. It belongs among the wood.
She might make it a whistle Press her soft lips to thistle And blow it. She might lay down on it Until she is sleepy Cloud's shadow upon it Til heavens are weeping. She might even dare To blink at the stars, But in time what was green Turns yellow and sours.
A girl can never own a piece of grass. It belongs to the field, And field to the farmer Who flings seed towards the sun, And waits for the warmer Season of summer.
A girl can never own a piece of grass. Her job is only To think of the grass And spill all her passion Til delights have gone passed. Then take it with her But no, she can’t ever —
A girl can never own a piece of grass. She can only watch it grow. Because once she plucks it Then she must know She rarely can reap But always must sow.
