If I am a blade of grass,
the world serves me drought,
the feet tread—heedless—on my head,
and I am brown, cracked, and bent.

Wave in the wind, they say,
and shine in the sun, Emerald.
Sport the frost or all is lost
to the grey, the ice, the end.

But I am only a scrap of grass
whimpering for water—water—
that life remakes a would-be knife
like fire, like steel, like cold.

I gasp for squandered virtue—
I thirst. I thirst. I thirst.
And all my stem is death within:
I need breath, need life, need You.

Pour down on me, holy Rain.