You ask for a poem.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You say it is not good enough.
You ask for a poem.

I say this blade of grass will do.
It has dressed itself in frost,
It is more immediate
Than any image of my making.

You say it is not a poem,
It is a blade of grass and grass
Is not quite good enough.
I offer you a blade of grass.

You are indignant.
You say it is too easy to offer grass.
It is absurd.
Anyone can offer a blade of grass.

You ask for a poem.
And so I write you a tragedy about
How a blade of grass
Becomes more and more difficult to offer,

And about how as you grow older
A blade of grass
Becomes more difficult to accept.
- Brian Patten, A Blade of Grass

Maybe one of the reasons why I am unhappy is my inability to find delight in blades of grass or trips to the pub or watching Blackadder on the Smilodon's computer while eating vanilla ice cream. Maybe I hope for too much and want the moon. My dissatisfaction makes me unhappy, makes the people around me unhappy. The cure could be something as simple as spinning that blade of grass a different way.