Orange Grass

At first, I thought the early morning sun was playing tricks. Yesterday the grass was definitely brown and dead. As soon as I opened the front door this morning to walk Sugar, the glare of orange nearly blinded me. But it wasn't the sun shining at some awkward angle. The overnight rains tickled the grass roots just enough to stir them, make them think they should wake up and grow. You can almost feel the roots forcing the grass to turn green, to absorb every speck of rain and demand that green return.


In places it seems to be working. Wherever there is ample tree shade, where the grass was not quite so dead, there is a splotch of green. Like some strange rash, the lawns are mottled shades of brown, orange and green. And here, at Sugar's turn around point, there is a patch of purple clover! Innocently nodding in the slight breeze, unaware of the trauma around it, the clover patch snuggles the trunk of a grandfather elm tree where the pieces of craggy bark that have sloughed off moldering into compost give the plants an advantage.


The ancient tree's bark is rough and weather beaten. Deep fissures lace its time-bent trunk. Even the tiniest breeze causes its aged limbs to creak and protest. Sugar sniffs the relic bark. I gaze out over the open field of orangeness and ponder how much greener and lusher it would be had it the sense to associate with the ancient elm tree.


Perhaps we all would be better off if we associated with our elders more, learned from the richness of their lives. I was lucky to have a wonderful Grandmother who enriched my understanding of life. I only hope I can pass that along to my grandbabies.