The Grass Withers...

The tiny blade of grass woke from his shallow slumber, and shivered upon feeling the unwanted layer of summer dew, so cold and unpleasant, enveloping his tiny form and dripping slowly, like honey, from his pointed tip which hung under the weight of it. He rose to meet the height of the nearby grassy shoots, much older than he, and straightened himself proudly in attempt to be just as they were, finely standing, and in unison, swaying to the unnoticeable rhythm of the wind. How lofty they were, he thought, how grand. And yet how plain he was, nothing more than a small blade who eagerly sought to be greater than what he was at present. He admired the prominent shade of their verdant skin, as though individually painted with the deepest and purest of green, lush and rich. And he, still young and small, had not yet obtained that fine coloring, not yet shaded with the glossy coat of forest, not yet grown to his full stature, and remained insignificant to the many others that surrounded him, those whom he lived in submission to.
The air was sweet, stronger in warmth as the sun made its ritual ascent into the boundless sky, so abundantly showering down golden rays of light and gentle heat, and soaked from the field the dew and what remained of the pools left behind from summer rain. The day slowly warmed. And as the sun drew in closer to the vibrant earth, the little blade of grass could feel the field embracing every ray, every soft beam of light which gave life and energy to all of creation. With gratitude, the blade welcomed the summery air.
But soon, upon the highest rising of the sun, when it hovered like a glowing orb of radiance above the hushed field, he no longer yearned for its ever providing warmth. He grew weary of the powerful heat, as it beat down upon his slim and narrowed body, and knew that shelter was altogether absent from where he stood, and could not move. In enfeeblement, his slender back arched and his tiny peak drooped to nearly touch the sun-scorched earth beneath him, lacking water, lacking life.
All around he could see the other shoots of grass, curving over as though bowing in reverence, to the sun that so relentlessly, forcefully beat down without mercy and without care. His sight became clouded and marred, as the rippling heat pounded upon his fragile body, and his green color slowly left him. And so it became far too great to bear, the heat of the summer sun which was endless.
He withered until he was only a shred of brown grass, mingling with the dry, crumbling earth, and became nothing but dust to be blown away by the wind.

"All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the filed. The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them. Surely the people are like grass. The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever." -Isaiah 40:7&8