Sunrise With Fog

Sunrise With Fog
Every Morning is New

Sunday, September 25, 2011

One Season Blends Into the Next

Fading Breath of Summer

Amidst delight and exuberance
A longing for an essence noticeably out of reach
Summer is a time of sowing, reaping, giving out
Often drawing one from quiet time with the Book
There is a noticeable weakening from not being nourished
A hunger for that quiet path of restoration to be refilled
Along the way there appears a bit of mountain crispness
Astonishment accompanies a gasp of breath in the chill
A lingering summer tanager sounds a cry without answer
The cacophony of strife stills as
Hummingbirds begin their arduous journey
Glossy deep green leaves on black gum trees
Suddenly sing out in magnificent red
A few loosen their grasp to drift in downward circles
Carried along on a wisp of wind
To lie along a dusty roadside and gleam in the grass
The late afternoon sun shines through tall trees
To illumine the leaves with special light
Shorter days allow time for pondering and awaiting insight
For hearing what the Spirit brings to mind
To refresh and refill the storehouse of the heart
A harvest of treasure from which to pour out love
Lengthening shadows reveal a dramatic landscape
Golden leaves glow with more vibrancy in the evening sun
And tendrils of fog lift upward in the cool as the day is done
In a special way my soul is in tune with the seasons
I am compelled to praise God for many reasons
Autumn takes its cue
And paints the landscape with every hue
How marvelous the bronze and gold
Like the color of the pavement in Jerusalem of old
Oh to stop and allow that warmth to envelope my soul
My whole being rejoices in the process of being made whole
As a spectator of the changing of the guard
One season hands the baton to the next
It gives witness to the faithfulness of the creator
Just like promises, each season arrives in designated time
Though we may not recognize its presence apart from changing leaves
Yet the soul may sing out at hearing the cries of wild geese over head
Cold winds may come early and we walk briskly
Golden rod smiles with warmth enough to store in memory
To chase the cold with reflections of a time of blossoming
Perhaps sitting beside a fireplace wrapped in an afghan of gold
Imp 9/25/11

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