Recently Sr. Rose Marie encountered a Robert Frost poem that captures the essence of springtime for our Sister-lawnmowers, who also happen to be our Sister-wildflower-lovers:
A saturated meadow
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers–
A temple of the heat.
There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun’s right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.
We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
That none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.
Needless to say, some of our sisters find in Frost a kindred spirit! Alas! Meanwhile the grass is growing along with the flowers, and obedience calls.
The Lord giveth wildflowers, and the mower taketh away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord!
(Perhaps Frost also wrote a eulogy for the wildflowers that did not obtain such grace of hours.)