Snake in the grass

Upon first glance,
the wheatgrass sways wholly with the wind.
Bending, twisting, opening up like the nimblest of dancers.
Hues of green, brown, purples, and blues
invite me to walk as slowly as I please.
Feeling the tufted tops tickle my thighs and caress my ankles as I walk.
I get lost in this vastness, this heaven on earth.
Lie down and disappear, camouflaged to the ground,sun kissed cheeks, wind blown body.
This is my most peaceful of places, where my dreams come to be born, where god touches me, where my soul comes to be cleansed.
Nightmares also awaken here.
Sometimes the soft, warm steps I take turn into cold slithering pulls.
Sometimes my soft bed of lucid dreams becomes a horrifying inescapable pit.
There are snakes in my grass.
Not always, but they do creep in unannounced from time to time.
This is, of course, the way these things must be.
I accept it, willing to take the risk of walking on clouds, or falling into a biting abyss.
I do this because I know that there must always be a balance.
Between safe and uncertain, light and dark, and love that hisses with blinding contempt.