An Autumn Poem.

'Cause it's getting all autumn-y outside.

Fallen motes of silver crust the open space beyond the grave

flakes of past Septembers
      and flurries of lost Octobers
dancing upon the mouth of sheol
      and swimming over the fountain of life.
Microcosmic celebrations of ages past
combat the macrocosmic mournings of futures gone
      and, in it all, there are leaves –
 
            those sorts of leaves which
            inspiring yet die
            dying yet glow
            glowing yet live again
 
      – a silent memorial of Resurrection,
      an avid watchman of Restoration,
      an eternal keeper of Redemption.
Early snows speak to leaves yet unfallen,
late winter to leaves yet to be
Early autumn speaks to death yet to come,
late fall speaks to life yet unknown.
 
(09/06/13)