Grass Fields

I am neither as logical nor creative as I once was; something scraped my brain away. It starts with s and ends with a. I strain myself to not make hay. I wish for lush green grass to flow out my fingertips, with healthy colors and deep greens. I wish for flower beds to grow from the grass, and for bees to pollinate ideas ran rampant in fields of metaphysical query. To be rude with ideas again, to be able to write down my dreams. To be able to have brain matter where it once was goes beyond my wildest dreams, yet I wish I had dit none the less.