Matty Layne Glasgow (opens in new tab)

Low, this body humbled to its knees, neck bent like a stalk of silver bluestem by summer sun or a breeze that sweeps acrossthe bayou and folds the wild grasses upon themselves until they feather the dirt—their white inflorescence soiled. This isn’t so much a metaphor as where He brings you, as what moves around you when He becomes your wind, your light. The grass doesn’t wantthe dirt so much as it requires itlike your mouth full of earthwhere anything might grow.