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Green turned to
Brown.
The fall, crisp and
fragile
sounds beneath my
feet.
The trees, disrobing,
show their
bones against the
purple velvet
evening.
All leaves, all saints,
Fall to the cold
earth, dark,
And does the
tree survive?
Yet all must do
so, as birds fly
south in autumn
skies,
before the Gardener
together,
them can gather
to His store.
All Saints must
All Souls preceed,
In hope of
Spring Eternal
beside the Tree,
the Tree of
Life.
This poem, Sacred Ground, is ©:1995 S.N.Mousir-Harrison.
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