The End of Spring

Today, I guess, the spring is gone. The green of the grass is turning to brown, and the tassels seem about to drop their seeds to the ground.

Blades of yellowing green stand tall amidst Indian Blanket and Mexican Hat and Coreopsis and Prickly Poppy and five foot tall purple-flowered thistles. But at the top, the blades of grass are bent.

I guess the spring is gone, although it will be green again next year after the heat of this summer and the cold of the distant winter have come and gone once more. But today the grass is bent.

And today my head is bent in shame.

Our heads will be bent this way for many years to come. A mere passing of a season will not be enough. A half-dozen court martials will not be sufficient. Even were the storm to rage to the top and scatter a few generals and a few luminary bureaucrats, it would not be enough.

And as if this darkness is not enough, they tell us that a darker day is coming. And we will hang our heads lower. And the world will look at us and mock. For all our words, all our works, all that we have done, and all that we held important is reduced to nothing by this.

And in remote places around the world, our enemies praise this day for the gift we have given them. And they grow strong.

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