What the?

A child said, What is the grass?

Walt Whitman, 1819 - 1892

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full

hands;

How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it

is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful

green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,

Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we

may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe

of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow

zones,

Growing among black folks as among white,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the 

same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;

It may be you are from old people and from women, and

from offspring taken soon out of their mother’s laps,

And here you are the mother’s laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old

mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths

for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men

and women,

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring

taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

What do you think has become of the women and

children?

They are alive and well somewhere;

The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait

at the end to arrest it,

And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and

luckier.

The above, which is part of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, is one of my favorite pieces of poetry. I thought of it in connection with this prompt because June 14 is Flag Day in the U.S.  I’ve always loved the line about the grass being "the flag of my disposition out of hopeful green stuff woven." 

However, this prompt is not about flags. It’s about whats!  As in,''[A] child said what is the grass" that opens Whitman’s pom.  Yes, it is very much about grass, but it also winds from and through grass to handkerchiefs to hints to the tongues of mothers and the mouths of graves. 

I invite you to pick something--anything--and to write its “what”.  As in, “what is the---?”  

"What is the non-grass?"

Your chosen "what" really can be anything. Ideally, it should speak to you, drop hints, loosens your tongue; serve  as jumping off or diving down point--where you can peer into depths or soar towards peaks. 

You do not have to begin your poem, with “what is the?”  or  “A child said what is the--” though you should feel free to use either of those phrases if one of them helps you get going.  

Also note that your poem does not have to be nearsly so long as Whitman’s and can take any form, even- dare I say it? -a haiku!  It also down’t need to be heavy or profound, comic is fine.

See you on the flip side.

ps, the pics are all mine, Karin Gustafson (ManicDdaily), and all rights are reserved.  Feel free to use one, but please give proper credit. Thanks.