Have you ever truly looked at grass roots?

Before scattering new seed,
before laying fresh soil,
I cut away a patch of lawn—
diseased, exhausted.
I lifted the earth, set it aside,
and let it dry.

What appeared were roots—
bright brown, almost luminous,
still holding their form,
though lifeless to the eye.
One long stem ran straight through,
a single street beneath the ground,
and every inch or two—
sometimes three—
fine roots branched out
like heirs of a quiet kingdom.

Above them, the stalk thickened—
barely an inch of sturdy rise.
No heirs there,
only thin blades reaching toward air,
now dry, nearly white.

But below—
just an inch beneath the surface—
the roots had traveled everywhere,
stretching toward any trace of moisture,
never stopping, never surrendering.
Even my clumsy digging
could not shame them into retreat.

Hidden underground,
life kept moving—
brave, persistent,
only an inch deep,
yet surviving scorched summers
and winter’s long silence.

No fanfare.
No applause.
Only resilience—
its instinct,
its faith.

There is no one on earth
who can stop such joy:
the joy of rising,
again
and again.

— TaeHun Yoon