This morning we chanced upon Frost’s grass poem. It was about his mowing. The poet is a grass cutter . There were poems of all kinds. There were grass poems.
We saw our own grass in the Himalayan slopes where woman’s grass rose so high it seemed like hill grass. Woman is green in memory like the grass on her head.
In the snow hills was white frost. In the city square there were people in long overcoats and they moved an invisible fog. They were shadows in the long sun.