What The Grass Knew

All night I stood
a single blade
no taller than a thought,
stitched into the dark.

The sky pressed low,
heavy with unspoken things.
Stars flickered like promises
that had learned patience.

Cold crept into my green bones.
Dew gathered—
not as tears,
but as borrowed weight
from a world learning to breathe.

Around me, the earth hummed quietly.
Roots whispered old assurances:
Hold. Bend. Do not vanish.
The wind tested my spine,
asked if I would yield or break.
I answered by swaying.

Darkness is persuasive.
It tells you the night has always been here.
It tells you dawn is a rumor
passed along by the hopeful.
But I had felt the sun before—
not seen it,
felt it—
stored in my cells like a memory of warmth.

So I kept my narrow posture.
Not heroic.
Just present.
Just enough.

Time moved on soft feet.
The black thinned to blue.
Birdsong cracked the silence
like laughter in an empty room.
And then—
the light arrived
without applause,
without explanation.

Sunlight did not rescue me.
It recognized me.

It touched my tip,
then my length,
and I glowed—not brighter than others,
but entirely myself.
Every droplet became a lens.
Every tremble, a dance.

I had not defeated the night.
I had outlasted it.

This is how it happens.
Not by force.
Not by certainty.
But by standing long enough
for morning to remember you.

If you are low to the ground now,
if the dark feels wide and convincing,
know this:

You are already rooted.
You are already growing
in ways you cannot yet measure.
The light is not lost.
It is simply on its way.

Stay.
Bend when you must.
Hold what warmth you can.

Dawn is coming—
and it knows exactly where you are.