Ode To September and Saturday and Grass

Grass on my sandals!
The joy of field grass,
Fine, hay-colored playing-field grass
That seemed like a life I’d left behind,
But, oh, I didn’t!
Papery-brittle, inch-long,
Parched and airy, yet
Clinging strong to my shoes at the rugby pitch
While I fill water bottles
And attempt pictures of the ruck
And lend ice packs, not for drinks
But for knees –
Every team, heaven help them,
Needs a mom.
Clapping at the tackle, then realizing
Play doesn’t stop at the tackle. Oh.
Odd, that.
Humid rain soup and metal bleachers.
A fan section of six – us –
Buzzed with the Saturday urgency of other games
To keep up with too,
And the countering feel of solid solemnity,
Sabbath coming,
But sweet lull right now in the hay-colored air.
We’ll take home half the field
On our shoes.

September is field grass.




Sorrow Is An Invitation

bigail Grey Photography

Others have said it,
And better,
That suffering is
The key
To the front door of
God’s heart.
Sorrow is an invitation,
A ride,
A password
Into the Presence.
It is the pounding
That molds us gently
Into the contours of
The Savior’s side,
Where He has saved us a seat!
Millions and millions have
Loved Him, and I
Get to sit next to Him
And swing my foot in time with His.
And there is only pure love, holy love,
When we are leg to leg.
Arrows that pierce also soften,
And isn’t it amazing that
The softened heart is stronger than
The hardened one?
A melted heart bears the pain, unbroken,
And rests its head on the sweet shoulder
Sighing, ‘Oh, my Friend.’