. . . if light can cause old grass to rise–
remade from last year’s loam,
then I’m fool to not regard such as sign toward the way home.
There’s terror in the news abroad-
and foreboding can’t be shaken.
But I take courage from upright stalks so fragile, not forsaken.
I read in a book that our lives are grass: the Maker’s view on how we last, but He says there is more, through winds that blow, are things that last forever ago.