The Unbearable Lightness of Being

If I could lie on the grass as quiet as a seed,
I think my hair would eventually stand on ends;
Black roots penetrating the intricate network of
soil in me.

Like an unearthed potato left too long
in the corner of a dusty kitchen closet.

What fruit will it bear?
What shoots will it sprout?
What look will it take?
What changes will it make?

In time,
I think I would have turned into a splotch of black blades
lost in a field of green.