With the window open, from my bed, the view is only grass.
It doesn’t matter if it is raining or sunny– from here I have my square of green framed in white. My life in grass.
In London, from the window of my office at Delaware Road — the first flat — my view was a damp brick wall, as viewed through barred window panes. Then we moved to number 87, an above-ground flat, and my view improved– morning bowling matches on the green, a handsome tennis instructor busy in his court, and, best of all, the shifting clouds that turned the skies from sulky grey to hyacinth blue in minutes.
Ma Vie en Vert
And even though London was green for its parks, and green by its nature… green from damp long winters that never quite got cold and summer that refused to dry out… even so, there were no sounds of lawn mowers and no wide squares of common man’s yard for no purpose other than to put greenness between that man and his neighbor. Greenness to slow down the acceleration towards each other.
Out my bedroom window, as I lie here, the square isn’t filled with rushing clouds or the rushing tennis balls and shoes. It is 
filled with thousands of single blades of grass assembled in one space– for the sake of the sun, the roots and a slower life.
