End of a Season

The leaves fall gold on brown.

The stripped branch seems to die.

Our glory gifts trampled down on the ground
As if they aren't treasure and never mattered.

As if they never caught the sunlight and shattered
in a thousand amber gems on a sapphire sky.

As if they hadn't transformed every street, every curve for those days.

As if love had never etched above us in ruby umbrellas
Deaf to death rumbling up
While we sat in its shade. 

I clutch a still-bright leaf,
But I can’t hold it long --
The wind has reached in greedy fingers:
Last week golden, this week gone.

It's the end of a season's lease -
with no renewal option,
no clause to cease the loss. 

and all along
drink deep the cup ...
but words can't be said. 
so let's talk of the day
let's complain of the cold
and pretend
that everything isn't gone.

Then I catch a phrase on an open page:
God is ever true to His promises.
And when I reach the "promises" part
Something thuds in my heart.
A word, a thought, some clod of hope hits
Oh I can't whisper it to myself yet.

But down in the gaping hole it sits.
Patient.

And one day
Before darkness visits
at 5 pm,
I grieve the leaves
and hollow out the hard hole
to press in a small tree that may survive the late planting, the cold.
And (crazy) I tell its roots,
"Reach out
Stretch out!
It's hard but please
begin again."
The Creator plants His courage. 

I Corinthians 1:9