Reclaiming Grace from Nature's Lavish Bowl
The
hold
of time
has limits.
Summer will not stay.
Shine is sapping, getting sloppy
in its later days, the cycle will soon turn to fall,
rotting apples, in sluggish creeks,
creepers tight around
other weeds.
Fir cones
trip
us.
Fall
will
choose a
slow reveal,
bring brightest color,
as if with one last wish, to hold
back time. Sensing the
clock ticking
pick her
last
gifts.
