At the end of it all
All the grasses are singing hymns.
As the sun sets low they humbly glow,
As the birds get still they gather,
As dusk arrives they gently wave,
To passersby and griever.
Fringed and reeded and meadow sweet,
Tufted and fine and common,
From prairied, salted, rice worn fields,
A chorus rises from the breath
Of all the love that’s always left
Still, at the end of it all.
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