lovely fury.

I felt frigid chills as she drew

My eyes to the angst-ridden scene.

The air was not cold, but the warmth

Had escaped this chaotic mess.

Unkempt undergrowth dashed by the entangled

Branches of poor-postured trees.

In greenless grey, this bleak wilderness

Whispered the approaching bitterness

Of winter.

Had we come a few days sooner

There would have been vibrance

And delight in fall’s rich texture.

But she sensed a beauty that begged us to linger.

It was the grim desolation that pleads another garment -

This one of white so white no bleach could compete.

And we knelt to the grace that

Brought order to our disarray.

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.