A year ago our yard was full of chickens. Four coops were spread out over the property, along with dozens of birds in various colors and sizes. This meant of course that grass was mostly gone, from continuous scratching and munching. Some of the pens were movable, patterned after an idea called tractor coops. But even when I lugged them from one spot to another every so often,  the foliage never recovered. I had long ago given up any ambitions of a pretty landscape, with bright green instead of mousy brown.   

But the flocks have been rehomed, and our neighbors have helped us reclaim the lawn. It is astonishing really, that it could be so resilient after four years of pecking. The line from a poem on my sister's wall when I was ten still echoes in my brain. 

"Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass."

It was reason enough for me to ask my mother the meaning of the word perennial.

It comes back. 

A couple that was sputtering on empty joined our marriage group a bunch of years ago. It was kind of a last ditch effort before he slid out the back door. But in the simplicity of sitting side by side, smiling instead of eye rolling, hearing other people's stories and remembering their own... affection returned. Everyone in the group could see it, and yet the change was as gradual as grass growing. From being disengaged, he was present. Instead of henpecking him, she expressed appreciation.

I take no credit for it, any more than I pat myself on the back for the lawn. But it does make me smile.