Vibrantly persistent meadow grass dances rhythmically to the beat of a breeze
that breathes politely across taken-for-granted landscapes
carpeted in verdant swathes of emerald deep pile.
Flexible it bends before the strongest gale.
Ever-thirsty it greedily consumes the heaviest rainfall
yet dries buttery-beige under the summer sun
to yield, apparently barren, to scythes and balers
and become fodder and bedding
for cloven-hoofed creatures.
And yet, somehow, this humble dried bed-food
was worthy of cushioning the God-child
as confused cattle looked down at a new-born gate-crasher
wriggling, gurgling, crying, hungry and helpless
in their feeding trough.
Vibrant, verdant, flexible and fruitful times do not last.
But even that which has been cut down and seems dead and dry
can become a surprising bed of welcome and encounter with God-with-us, Immanuel.
*I am aware that this title carries a certain amount of playful ambiguity but assure you that this poem was not created under the influence of any substances.