Stillness of rage

Blades of grass rooted in resentment, I can feel their sorrow as I pluck them from the ground, one by one. My gaze draped over a sea of emerald, pierced with pools of sunshine. Ant armies march toward dirty soles, weeds push against me, telling me I’m not welcome. Here I sit in mumbling meadows, whispering for the wind to speak to me. Telling God to show Himself through faint breezes at dusk. But all I can hear are the roaring sounds of car engines, spitting their fumes out like they too wish the wind would talk back.