How long until the gray brown grass I walk across each morning on my way from home to work begins to speak? Surely, these small bent blades on the ragged path’s edge don’t know or care how far I push them back.And if they don’t, then why should I? Why should I trouble myself or anyone else if plum blossoms fall? Or is it maybe seeing, maybe caring, makes it matter? Maybe hands as strong as yours were made for holding whatever you love and care for as close as you can.
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