The richest green I’ve ever seen
was in the spring in Ole Kentucky.
When the morning sun 
wrapped around the barn
and burnished its warming light
right along the sides,

all that fescue and whatever else
had held true to its hiding roots
saw those fresh, new shoots
showered in the gleam
of low-angled light
sheening the fresh bright of growth.

While it is true that all of grass
has but a passing glory,
it is still a glory, nonetheless,
and though the very best of spring
will feel the scorching sting of summer,
and the certain equity of frost
will come each fall
and bring forth the loss of each cold winter,
each season holds its cost and its beauty.

Duty will yield its proper due 
and the brightest hues of each season
give reason enough for both plowing and planting,
the sweat of sowing and tending the growing
to bring forth the fruit of harvest,
food for the farmer and seed for the hope
that comes with each spring’s glorious sun,
and that glowing sheen
that crowns the bowing grass
in the low-angled pass of morning’s bright sun
until all of Earth’s work is done.