I sit on the porch recovering
from an illness that left me flat.
Before me are two maple trees
resplendent in their autumn hues:
yellow, copper, gold, and scarlet.
A north wind blows, brisk and gusty.
It shakes the leaves, makes them shiver,
breaks the tenuous grip of dying stems,
sends them twirling, swirling to the ground.
The tree on the right is nearly bare,
while it’s soulmate clings to summer memories.
One thing is sure: eventually,
the last leaves will loosen their hold,
leaving their parents grim and barren.
Earth will grow cold then, and drab.
The view from the porch, bleak, until
the spring, when comes resurrection.
And so I think, this is the way of things.
The last leaf falls, and life begins again.
Under Christ’s Mercy,
Brent