all flesh is grass

The young blade dreams his days will pass
In mexican waves of wind and sun,
Light rain night-falling. This is grass.

Life is a Meadow? Hope soon gone.
The taxing mower descends, demands;
In severing swathes are dreams undone.

Truth is desire low mown, close shorn.
Harsh years confirm the cynical view:
That Life, regrettably, is a Lawn.

- new westie