Grass (Or Something Like It)

they are not very tall now,
pointed blades of grass,
growing dreams called
something,
whose sharpened peaks reach toward skies
upholding tumbling, breaking clouds
of nothing, nothing like
the nothing I’m feeling when I write today and
search desperately for what isn’t there,
new words...
nothing is a new word, brand new
nothing
like something empty and void, waiting
without sound to hear what isn’t speaking
what isn’t even whispering when
I’m finally patient, nothing
like
what can’t be touched when I try
to lead my fingers some place new
and someplace filled, whole... but there is
still nothing,
nothing
like undefined words used by hasty, and anxious,
envious lips taking in
mortal breath and not caring to explain,
and that feeling
...nothing
that trying
...nothing
that meaning
...nothing, nothing like
broken clouds reached for by
trying blades.