My Choice

I know – it is not a vague after-sensation,

That I am only a blade of grass in formation,

A weed stem that wants to be shining

Rising up in order not to be pining.

I am aware I am not under an illusion

That those things I may own in profusion,

But still as usual so many wishes I look for

Yoked by thousand causes cannot soar.

With the fulfilments – they were not full;

The first-come was still late, down to pull;

Thought to have gained but immediately lost;

Grass, me – not far from the whirl to my cost.

I have times been winking together with dew

Which dissolved as morning glowed through.

I realize I might spread to emit perfume,

A waft of fragrance in a modest room

Under a certain humble circumstance

Or in multiple ways to choose by chance,

But in all my life I am not a discursive grass

Wavering around in an incomplete class.