Autumn's Turn

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 riverbeds of fallen leaves, scatter onto paper.

The wind billows shivers, while time stills my thoughts to a taper.

Dwelling in the valley’s hallows, I rend pages of poetry for fire.

Sitting by the window, my mind drifts as time draws nigher.

When the autumn night sky ignites in purple and blue hues,

white stars glitter and peek through the yews.

Silent prayers rise from my depths, whispered in layers.

God hears and silences the static; it is His grace I favor.

Yet, when the morning approaches, ever silent and bare,

I’m hidden in its fog, left to look for light elsewhere.

And when soft light returns as night draws to its end,

I’m thankful for autumn nights, God’s purpose transcends.

-AB-