praise song for the simple grasses


lights that flicker on at dusk. on timers. the quiet when 
the sun shrinks into clouds. the smell of rain. the starting over. old limbs 
left out to rot. i do not take it personally.

i grow old, walk every evening when the whiff of curry from the yellow flowers on the corner, 
the runners climb the hill, the men in pairs on bicycles go back and forth about their kids, 
vacations. i love the strong perfume of black men in their gear. the detergent-scent of two brisk-
walking in bright head scarves. all is comfort. familiar. the many signs of prosper -o, there’s 
magic in it. lull and glister, if not gold than surely silver lining in the streets where odd the 
plastic cup crotched in a tree. i celebrate the fire house with open door, the men standing idly. the
signs that limit speed to 25, and the commandment: share the road. the yards with placid deer
nibbling at the hedges. i celebrate the garden gnomes. the amble of the trash bins toward the
curb. the privilege of the buses that arrive on time. the good evenings i collect like amulets for
blessings. i celebrate my neighbors. especially the one who says his problems are self-generated. 
and the one who wears her orange pants to run. bright-orange sneakers. reminding me that self is 
a construction. i celebrate the simple grasses that grow. and grow. that don’t give up. despite the
whir that feeds the whacker. despite the mower. 




Kathleen Hellen’s debut collection Umberto’s Night won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House. She is the author of The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, Meet Me at the Bottom, and two chapbooks. Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, Hellen’s work has appeared in Massachusetts Review, North American Review, Notre Dame Review, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, The Rumpus, Salamander, Witness, World Literature Today, and elsewhere. Awards include prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review.