At once, there is a single straw.
Maybe a clump, powerfully brittle,
pale-yellow grass, tall and massacred
by wind. It survives, loneliness palpable,
most alone while the sun slaughters
mercilessly, and the haggard grass stands,
as if forever, never to get help,
never to give solace, only to stand,
so miserably
by itself
through endless seasons,
standing
as terse lesson,
the emptiness
our world,
alone.