Have you ever heard the grass grow? One magic, mystic night in boyhood I did -
Adventuring in the night, in the sweet summer, summer night, as I was wont to do in boyhood so many years ago
all by myself,
all by myself: There were no witnesses but me.
Imprint so strong, still, I see the place, ill-lit by streetlight
half a block away; Feel the night and lawn on which I lay; Hear, again, the town off there
someplace, faint with distance
(only noticed if I pay close attention); Smell musty fecundity of earth and lawn; Taste the single blade of grass
I chose to chew,
faintly bitter acid taste
on my tongue, in my mouth; Boyhood senses tuned and sharpened
by adventuring in the summer night,
on my back on the lawn on that summer night
I heard the grass grow:
stretching, stretching toward maturity
just as I was.
I recognize my kinship with the grass,
with all living, growing, changing things -
with you; I won't tell you how it sounds,
or how I know it's true;
perhaps you know, Or perhaps, in time, you might allow yourself
to hear the grass grow On a mystic, magic summer night.