Ad Consolatio Herbam

Take this sprig of fresh grass, this scepter of nature's creation, this abundant bed from which man will lay in at the end.

This lone blade, this wee-whistle calling all fairies and pixies abound.

This grasslet, this green tuft of Gaea's hair that we caress and massage - giving salon makeovers with push to industrial clippers when Gaea needs a new look for the new season.

Take this single stalk of grass, hold and admire the virescent pastoral being in your hands. The smell lingers - softly, hung with patience and unaged grace.

Notice the viridescent color slowly with time, for every second and moment of man becomes a last breath, a last aeon for this single inhabitant of its homely meadow-land veld.

"Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'" - The Talmud