Lest we forget a blade of grass

Grass is unimpeded by our efforts to thwart it. It elbows its way through crevasses in concrete and asphalt. It bears the footfalls of animals and man. Grass's modern lifestyle plainly sucks. It endures ceaseless trampling and it is decapitated on the regular. People think nothing of the gaping green throats releasing the scent of plant-based violence into the suburban air. And while we often think about grass as sod — a blanket of green clinging to rolled up dirt — we mustn't forget the blade.

The Struggle exists in the solitary blade. It is He that is threatened by pests and disease, by competition for nutrients and the predation of an altogether different blade, namely, that of the whirling mower, caked with the carcasses of a thousand already-hacked brethren.

To forget the solitary blade would be to dismiss whole of humanity as "A brief flash of lush foam/On a cold stone/In a vast and soundless void." As they say.

And yet, that is the perspective of the cosmos. What blades of grass are we.

(Right? Right?)