Our lawn is in a state of disrepair.
Not one green blade of grass to soothe the eyes.
For only hardy plants can thrive out here,
Beneath the glorious blue of sun streaked skies.
The next door neighbour's patch is emerald green!
Not for him this panting, drought struck land
He has the liveliest grass I've ever seen!
From founts of water hosed with liberal hand.
Not us! We wait for autumn rains to fall.
Our grass lies dormant; brown and dry and dead.
Yet in defiance one proud stalk stands tall,
And nods towards the breeze its feathered head.
My fingers itch to spring the grass to life,
But that is not my role; I too must wait.
Perhaps these desert moments are a tithe,
That patience, hope and faith will satiate.
Amanda Edwards (c) 2014
(Writing for Joy)