Green Gospel

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.