God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world. — C.S. Lewis
End of a Season
The leaves fall gold on brown.
The stripped branch seems to die.
Our glory gifts trampled flat 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 in a cloud While we sat in comfort and shade.
The end of a season's lease with no renewal option, no clause to cease the loss.
From the pile, I clutch a still-bright leaf, But I can’t keep it long -- The wind has reached in greedy fingers: Last week golden, this week gone.
and all along we think this loss ... drink deep the loss ... but it can't be said. so we talk of the wind we complain of the cold we 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.
Leveled 