Stubby Grass

I am always impressed by the stubby grass growing by the tracks between Summerhill and St. Clair Station. What must be ten, twelfth feet underground and where not even a sheaf of sunlight can ever be seen, these grass grow.

I go by them almost everyday. Most of the time I don't even notice. The subway train going so fast; they are just a sliver of shadow under the orange lamp lighting the tunnels for those interspersed constrution work the TTC pretends to do once in awhile.

The grass stays.

The grass seems to die once in awhile. Then it comes back at different places. Though by what earthly cycle their never ending nocturnal existence should tell them the coming and going of seasons, what clue or signs that tells them if the sun is close of far?

Life for the grass, as far as I cam tell will always be dim. Why live? Grow tall to when light is lit from the ground? Waste precious energy for seeds of children who will steal those same few precious energies?

The life of grass must be a happier one than mine: they are so willing to live it even when they are so far down.