In the midst of the neighbor’s brown husk of lawn,
parallel strips of deep green run north to south,
marking the mouth of the septic tank
and defining the lateral lines.
Deep-rooted fescue grows lush and full
in those neat rows,
close beside the dead and dormant sod
lying just beside and between.
There is no sharing,
no passing along,
none of that
“no one lacking anything
and no one having more than he needed.”
Just that deep, clear division
that so often marks the distinction
between those that live
in the line of blessing
and those who do not.
I do not suppose
in its brown moments,
what sins need confessing,
nor in its green
with humble awareness
that blessings need not be earned
to be appreciated.
We ought to be
at least a bit higher than the grass
and know that it was not deserve
that placed us above the deep wells
of God’s good grace.