There is no defense for a man who, in the excess of his wealth,
has kicked the great altar of Justice out of sight. —Aeschylus
Having done their green work
the grasses say to the sky,
The sky is blue and silent, clouds tease.
They slide mute as angels at ease under a brilliant sun.
They hoard their wealth those sky-bound Himalayas
cold and distant, imperious, majestic in volume,
huge, heaped, joining and unjoining vapors
among their kind alone. They keep it to themselves
witholding as a vacant page. To each molecule they cling.
While grasses need psalms of moisture they refuse to sing.
They billow above brown prairies counting their vaulted droplets
keeping whole seas for their own rainy day
by Jim Culleny