Lawn Bard

Lawn Bard.
The older I get, the more I cry.
Why?
There are many reasons to weep for joy.
Poignant, perfect stories and the people who live them.
Man's life truly is like a blade of grass.
Living briefly - for a season only.
He grows and lives and withers with the end of autumn.
I sit on my porch and gaze out over a cup of tea, at the new life growing on my lawn in springtime.
Each blade of grass, as an individual life - each one with a living story worthy of telling.
That is how man's life is.
Brief, it flowers, it withers, it dies.
When you walk down a city street,
Whether you are in Peoria Illinois, New Delhi, or London,
You pass people on the street.
Each face, each set of eyes bears an epic worth telling, worth remembering.
Each life is a story.
The telling, from start to finish, may be long, taking many nights before a winter-warmed hearth, or may be so brief as to lend itself to a bedtime story.
Each one is worth the telling.
Each one WILL be told.
Each one is worth the remembering.
Each one WILL be remembered.
Many pass far too quickly for those around to take time to notice and commit the telling to memory...except God.
He is the Great Author, as well as The Great Bard.
When all things end, all of the Books will be opened.
All of the stories told.
Each story a comedy, a drama, a tragedy and often, a Victory, combined.
We will hear them all in the twinkling of an eye.
Stories of quiet greatness, that went overlooked and untold here while we wore this Fleshly Tent, they will be told and sung by the Greatest Bard Who Is Ever Living.
And so, on this lovely early spring afternoon,
I sit on the porch, and watch the lawn return anew, and think.