I should have planted the grass in March. I can see that now. Back then I didn’t know when was the best time to start. Somewhere along the end of summer did I want the yard green. Some of what I planted then has taken root. And of that, is growing full and thick and green.
My visitors that casually trample over my little lawn have no idea, nor would they care, if they knew of the efforts of my green thumb. Now all that’s left for me to do is to water.
Fall is approaching. Winter will follow. What is green will go dormant and turn brown. And I will have to hope to be here again in the spring, when new things are being born. New things sprouting. But I will not be new.
If I happen to witness the spring, I will tend to the lawn. I will cut away what I can see will not grow. Take a shovel to the dead. And in its place, I’ll plant again, fresh, new turf. It’s the only thing any of us could ask for. Another spring. Another chance. Another shot at getting things right.
This summer I will stand with the strongest blades and the deepest roots. Holding firmly to the Earth and yet reaching up and out for the sun and its sky. And if it’s out there for me, reaching for Heaven too.