God's infinite lawn

You say God's in His heaven 
- naught's right with the world 
as He rocks on his infinite porch. 

His infinite lawn

upon which we get off's always greenest
wherever we don't sport and scorch,
but it isn't allowed. To go where we shan't.
At least we feel some prohibitions apply.

We play catch

and we tag, and we seek what we can't.
We do landscaping, skylarking, flailing, we lie
- on our backs, or in stance! With bald faces bold,  
we set ourselves proud, as we pound in our stakes.
Tent pegs driven deep and as firm as
whoever we've been.

We pitch tents, and we pitch ourselves in!
So to make, so to shape. We are fraught,
caught and sold. So intense in our tents!
Such pounding of stakes makes us strong
and unflappable, guilty and wrong, or
decent and true, but also old. 

This is not our lawn. There's a hill here 
to die upon, waiting for you. But perhaps 
before picking such battles, a white 
picket fence or two! To claim, subdivide
and lie in the shade of a tree that we'll say
grows figs no one ever has seen bloom 
or fruit! But there's plenty of wasps 
around - who knows?

It is all pretty cute. 

In patches and stretches,
God's infinite lawn spreads out
far and wide, while the old grouch
looks on from above and says nothing
in ages. Thank God! (I suppose) we
have some few divine or profane
class ventriloquists handy  

Their voices thrown high,
they pitch low and mean, casting
thunderbolts vain, fireballs so sincere,
and they speak (they will all
have you know) for
That Guy. 

How odd. 

While in infinite distance, that shining porch
awaits. Lemonade and iced tea in cold pitchers
bedewed, and all the best people who ever made
play on this lawn are there waiting, rejoicing.

Subdued. 

We'll see. 

Let us play.
Let us pray, let us dance
- there's a time for everything
under today's hidden sun! Let us
bask in the shade, and frolic 
in rain.

For this is the day the Lord has begun. 

Let us finish this thing, and call it well-done.
We have taken such gift. Its wrappings we've
stripped, its pretty bows cast upon heaps unbowed:
ripped paper and twine, all tangled amess
with nothing amiss. We have missed not a gift,
not a one this everyday Christmas morn.
So we mourn through our grins. Is there
nothing more? No more fun tucked around?

So greedy, we kids. But inside: we suspect
we have found and known all there is.

We've poked and inspected with fond
probing prod, we have taken in everything fit
that could fit, and plenty of misfit and unfit
and odd. We have found and known in it 

all the good of it. Oh, maybe some more
in this crack, that corner, that hole? But mostly
we know and suspect: just more of the same
we know. Whatever we've found

is all ours. All its worth. 

But this lawn isn't ours. Let's get off 
you and I, every day 
every one, 
while we can. Let us make
every best of this earth and this birth.
Which we shall not no matter what 
we'll have earned, have ever deserved.
It is given, but just. To the unjust 
as well, so we'll make and we'll shape 
ourselves to give back to this gift. 

That's swell.  

Some "gift"! A gift come without strings 
or tags! No "To:" and no "From:" such 
confusion! Such flaws.  

So I will be it.

This is just, you and me. 
Let us take as our givens 
each every effect, with
such good cause. 

Catch now if you can!
Stuff me and all everything else
in your bags, and run back
to touch base and yell, "Home Free!"
if you please. Let us find our fit
without let, or hindrance 

or pause.