The grass, lilting amidst speckled sun and steady breeze;
Laughs and puts forth its vibrant color for the world to see;
Amidst the knotted trees whiling away their closing years;
Children of the melting snow, knowing only ever-brightening days;
Each blade knows not the history, the joy, the tragedy;
That fields long dead were witness to;
Covered in petals, spring snows, the checkered picnic blanket;
The bare feet of men new to this world;
And the boots of a dying man, laid to rest with his bayonet;
Oaks sag with the weight of history, and;
Gaze upon the young grass that will soon wither;
As a thousand fields have done before their arching branches;
It is best to leave them to their play;
Unspoken Politics 