Lost and found

Wind rushes through the tall reeds
in a haste
For what?
Towards the golden sun in an attempt to get warm
only to find cold silver sheets
with an onlooker underneath
sleeping with his eyes open
destined to look through the glass forever
And what of the grass
How does it see the world
Does it wish it were blue like the sky
or does it try to reach out for the floating cotton;
shaped like a holy face painted not with the hands
but with the soul
Or does it turn brown
like the good earth itself
and the mountain it sits on
Or does it die
like all living beings
with hopes and dreams
that try to take hold of something
it may never touch