When ego trips take me away from You,
I see myself as blade in field of grass,
so blinding self-importance fades from view,
along with arrogance and pride that’s crass.
For, as a blade, I’m part of something larger
than ego which inflates – hot air balloon –
and pops dramatically a little later,
so that I feel I’ve been a fool – buffoon.
As blade, I sway with others in a field,
in wind that bends my stretching, supple stem,
designed to bend instead of break, to yield,
as I reach to the sun like all of them.
I feel relieved by fields that I walk by,
imagining I’m grass that’s growing high.
Mario A. Pita