Really Here

I often feel as if I’m not really here.
But I am. 
I am no more or less important
than a wave or a blade
of grass or the crow squawking
in the top of that tree.
It obviously sees me.
I won’t say knows me.
But what does knowing really mean
when we are all so sad
and fleeting?
I crush the grass
and the grass closes over me.
I break the branch
and the forest closes over me.
Everything is true.