Poem of the Month
Blowing Grass Empire (i)

By Mark Lavorato

Published on October 7, 2018

She took the child to the crest of a green hill
overlooking an immense land, and swept her arm
across the horizon. Look, there. Everything,
as far as the eye can see, every home, every family,
every enterprising man and handsome girl, every

tree, bird, fruit, every farm, church, market,
tavern, cobbler, butcher, every unseen deer that beds
through the daytime, every blade of blowing grass
that fans this empire; I need you to consider it all,
every hidden corner. For it is time that you know.

You, child, are the noble heir to none of it.
None of this is yours. And what is more, you
are incapable of possession. Instead, you will live
a brief and futile span, and when you die, only
a small hewn stone will mark your passing, whose

engraving the wind will soon wear away. No one
will remember you. Your unimportance in this place
cannot be overstated. You have, however, been granted
a single permission. You have been given leave
to hold in your hands, anything, anything down there

that allows you to do so, for a moment.
You may take in colours, smells, sounds.
You may even sample, to taste. Perhaps
you will come to see how generous is this offer.
Now go. And remember your place.

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