I once heard a story about a house sitting on top of a field.When it was torn down after hundreds of years, without anyone planting, without anyone interfering a small poppy bud grew out of the ashes. The seed had been dormant below the house for 200 hundred years. In a matter of weeks grass was flourishing and a poppy field grew. The inherent power of life flows in every speckle of every bud, every blade. Nature regenerates and nothing can stop it because it is the inherent word of God. Way back when God said “let there be…” there was. His word creates. It is life.
A miracle in plain sight.
an ordinary blade of grass, common as the seasons that flow
one into another, predictable as sun and moon rising and falling.
The blades of grass,
each one its own singular solitary self,
a lone life amid the masses of singular buds, heads tilted upwards
into the heavens soaking in the invisible rays of light.
A blade of grass is power.
An ancient power as old as time.
It is the power of a word.
When God created the world, he spoke it into being.
God speaks and grass grows.
Its power, pure and simple.
A power, deep and grand as the world has ever known.
Its grows and regenerates without interference.
That is power.
That is magic.