Autumn has turned its leaves into wine. Aged with wooden vines, flavored with cedar and pine. Morning dew beads the autumn vines, where buried roots drink and intertwine. Pine needles fall where old tree branches, rot. Cold mornings smell of earthworms and wet rocks. Though the creek is shallow, she’s still holding her breath. The moths grow weak and weary searching for death. The cold beckons seclusion, year after year, as I draw inward, God warms up my tears. Words, like ri

Though I walk on new ground, new paths, new land, This feels familiar but freshly aligned with where I am supposed to stand. I...