The grass grown here is named for St. Augustine—
The Florida one, not the church father,
Though the bishop’s name befits this place. Lust in
Its past plagues its present, and souls bother
With all manner of “wisdom” while the truth
Beckons from the lips of Christians homegrown
And transplanted into the hard soil. Youth
Still steal pears, or citrus here. On their own,
One might think it impossible they’d find
Their way from Desire. The city of God
Is near and far. Yet the Father is kind,
Answering Monica’s pray’rs, making sod
Like Sodom’s sprout blades of grass that grow strong
And vines that produce fruit further along.

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Photo by Mitch Hodiono on Unsplash