Chilly dew frosts
the green blades of grass,
Silent in the wind
that once ripped them from the roots.
The icy shell plants
them there eternally.
The sun shines, but
they won't be thawed til' noontime.
They'll be stepped
upon by each passerby
With a final crunch
of submission.
But with each dirty
sole
Squashing,
trampling, and kicking the blades,
One by one the
crystals melt away.
A wash of green and
mud covers solid ground
And a few, weak
blades are carried with the soles.
The wind strikes the
sky and grass whips and withers.
No prisoner to ice,
but a victim to the breeze.
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