It’s Summer, now, and I feel compelled to touch the grass. It’s absent minded, like my body remembers something from long ago. Demeter, diva of the harvest, is alive in me; reaching through, to pull upon the seed heads, like I’m a gatherer of grain, out on the Steppes. My love is out hunting, of course, and I’ve been weaving baskets, all afternoon by a lazy river. He’ll bring back the kill, and I’ll prepare a fine pair of fur moccasins, in anticipation of Winter.
There is no need for me to pull upon the grass seeds, and yet I do it. They bunch up, between my fingers, like a tiny bouquet, which I throw all about me like it’s my wedding day. What is this need in me? Does the grass speak unconsciously to an unconscious part of me? The God of Summer is a grass seed, I’m sure. I am small as a harvest house, now, and I’m climbing up the hollow stalks, to nibble. It’s late evening, and I’m an owl, silent and low over the meadow. As I come down low, the air currents move around my perfect aerodynamic form, and ripple the grass like it’s water.
Demeter is here again, and there, and everywhere. The crops are ripening; popping in the lingering heat of the day. The sheafs are ready, and shake like a rattlesnake in the gentle warm breeze, as a large moon looms in a cloudless sky. The wheat looks upon it’s grassy cousins, growing wild on the edges of it’s acreage, and it remembers its many ancient selves. Emmer, and Einkorn, of old. Do they dream of their usefulness, or of the simple freedom of a prairie, just begging for a hand to pull upon them, so they might spread again, another year.
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