Yard after brown yard of scorched suburbia waves its tired white flag in surrender. Summer has been a mischievous adolescent, striking his matches with intent to singe. But just as a glossy black mane of hair silvers, becoming glorious with wisdom, this once lush green carpet still has tales to tell. To look at it now in its dismal state, to feel the raw scratch as each desperate, razorous blade threatens to cut your shoeless foot before succumbing with a snap to your weight, you might assume all is lost.
This is not the welcome, gentle withering brought about by the cool breath of autumn; this is a premature assault, an attempt to suck life dry leaving a hollow corpse for its marker. Like a weary mother of five surveying her reflection, you momentarily deny reality to see the yard as it once was: so thick it seemed one giant mass, so soft it begged to be caressed, so green it oozed vitality. With a heavy blink, you continue across the lawn of toasted coconut, startled as it jumps to life with a high-rise community of camouflaged grasshoppers bouncing off each other in skyward competition. Such a display of determination and vigor renews your hope. This is not death after all. This is nature. This is life.
Your backyard is a perennial promise of resiliency, of renewal, of triumph. Two months of 100-degree sun are foiled by one gray day of sweet, nectarous rain. The green returns—multiplying and gaining strength by the hour—stretching and smiling, happy to see even the sun. It does not gloat. It is not proud. It is simply thankful for September.