Friday, November 19, 2010

a constant.

The somber hush falls, naked limbs scrape the sky.

Yesterday’s color seemed eternally bright

In a brilliance we forgot, this season’s might.

Black flocks forebode, we feel despair as they fly

In frantic formation, never ceasing their cry;

And they are restless and stirring before comes the night

We might not be ready, but the time must be right

For this sudden change. In the questionings why

We must silently wait. This death will not stay,

For a time will return for the budding of gold.

And change whispers something of a higher way,

As ever-constant Truth has wiser tales to be told.

And every season of grief and of fear in the fray

Cannot shatter the trembling lambs in His hold.

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