and the grass was green

a test: if under two
feet of snow, wind
smashing its argent head 
into the sides of your house
you can, with closed eyes
recall not just the color
but the feel, alive and 
squeaky beneath your thighs 
the way the breeze combs 
up down then down its 
collective back, the way its
army of fingers unerringly 
point out the wonder of the sun. 
if you are alive that is, if you 
have truly desired the ripe
flesh of this world, have run
your fingers over its glossy
bouyancy, have reclined on it
have thought you could
die on it--die happy and 
in love with it—you pass
the test, you are my friend
and now we can speak or not 
speak of other things.
​
​