Every Saturday, my father finds the sermon
in the blades of grass beneath his feet.
He holds court in the backyard,
his hands orchestras of gesture and soil.
"Fertilizer is a promise," he says,
kneeling like a man praying for spring.
"The weeds will always try to win,
but diligence is louder than dandelions."
He tells us that rain, when it comes,
is the quiet applause of persistence.
That mowing lines are a kind of art,
straight paths cut through the wild.
My brother rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses,
but I’ve begun to notice—
every season we absorb
a little more gospel, a little more green.
Because love, like lawn care,
is work done in seasons, silently seen.
It whispers under your breath each morning
about the things worth growing.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 9th, 2026 03:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
Offline)
Comments4
much enjoyed friend
Thank You Norman
most welcome
This is a poetic lesson and may be applied to many things. Poetry is such and with fertilizer and proper care it too will grow overcoming the weeds. Very Nice Gray
Thank You Soren
You are most welcome Gray
Sounds better than a pew.
This is a damn good little meditation on fathers, work, and the quiet lessons we inherit without realizing it. The lawn becomes a beautiful metaphor for love—unshowy, stubborn, seasonal work that keeps something alive.
Thank You Thomas
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