The new grass that passed beyond lush  in the heavy rains of late spring and early summer  now lies in matted wisps of brown—  thin, withered stems of ryegrass and bluegrass  curled and killed by too many weeks of heat.    I'm not sure how much watering it would have taken  but with the monthly bill bulging over two hundred dollars  I felt like I had to taper off a bit  and it proved to be at least a bit too much.    Much of what I sowed is splotched now  with growth of crabgrass and watergrass—  not at all the rich sheen of fine-bladed green I'd wanted.  And worked toward.    Perhaps with the passing of summer,  the coming of more moderate days and cooler nights,  I might find the will to till new seed into the soil.  Perhaps.    I try to console myself  by thinking that even the wild, unwanted grass  is some shade of green  and its roots will help keep the soil in place  but there is no denying the disappointment.    It is deeply fused into the ways of the earth  that planting and sprouting are only the beginnings.  In the curse of thorn and thistle, sand burr and sticker,  it takes more than wish and whistle  to bring forth and keep the finer things growing.    It takes both toil and blessing,  hours and days of sweat and muscle   and the sustained caressing of dirt and rain,  all driven by remembering that in due season  we will reap a harvest  if we do not give up.        H. Arnett  9/10/2021