Grass

        A-blade-of-grass was sad and the day came when it voiced its dilemma in a stream of continuous sighs to the Nothing, or to whoever will come to hear and listen.

            "I am so sad," it complained, "Oh, so sad."

            A-blade-of-grass looked to the left and to the right to see if there was anything that would take its words unkindly, but saw that every other grass was bent to the side, asleep and waiting for the dew to wake them up with soft weights.  So, it continued its confession.

            A-blade-of-grass contemplated its green sleek body and said, "I look just like every other grass."

            It looked up to the starry night skies and cried with a soft, trembling breath, "Every single blade of grass gets to be bathed with the morning dew."

            A soft night breeze gently caressed its way to the north and A-blade-of-grass remembered with an even sadder tone, "The wind blows me in the same direction with every other blade of grass."

            And then it declared with a stronger conviction, "Oh how I wish to be different!

            "How I wish I was dipped in a different hue!

            A soft shade of lilac, or even a vibrant blue!

            How I wish the raindrops poured,

            In various flavored galore!

            Let the winds, those free spirits, be scatterbrained,

            And blow every grass blade, in different directions, away!"

            A few grass blades stirred and it was stopped frozen, though the breeze betrayed the pliancy of its lanky body that feigned rigidity.  A-blade-of-grass may or may not have said that last part too loud.  It went still for a few moments before starting all over again.

            "Humans are so lucky...  Born with different faces, different talents, in different lands, and yet those individuals insist on being uniform; going on stigmatizing the ones that stand out and pulling down the ones that just try to be themselves..."

            With a final sigh, A-blade-of-grass finally went to sleep, tired and weary from its deep reflections.

            The next day, a grass cutter was hired to clean a certain yard.  The rotating blades cut and scattered the grass every which way.  It was early morning and the dew was still fresh so the cut grass became veiled with a soft, grayish brown mud. 

            A little while that late afternoon, when the people were sure that the grass were finally dry, they burned the grass pile and it looked like a giant bonfire. 

            In the last fight of fire, as it vehemently refused to be reduced to mere embers, ashes slowly floated up and away from the burning wake.  A-blade-of-grass was in them, and this time with a happy tone it whispered its last words, as if it's leaving a legacy or a last will and testament to distant grass relatives and kin,

            "Alas, I am not like any other blades of grass anymore..."

            Its words echoed unintelligibly through the winds before A-blade-of-grass finally disintegrated into particles of dust in the air.