I

The steam arose from the stream

The leaves fell from the tree

Weak sun shone on the grass

The pattern of frost won’t last.

 

The chill hung in the air

The flowers drooped drab and brown

The birds scavenged for food

The sky began to brood.

 

The wind cut through my coat

My scarf flew like a flag

Season’s clock relentless rolling

Year end’s bell began tolling.

 

My coffee smoked as I walked

My thoughts wandered to spring

All was promise, purpose, and plan

New grass, new leaves, new man.

 

                II    

Some say San Diego,

Paradise– perpetual spring

As if all eternally hung

On remaining endlessly young.

 

No sense of the seasons,

No sense of their worth,

As if we needn’t come

Back down to earth.

 

Fall’s a reality check

Life’s dances denouement

And in the unwinding

The inner truth finding.

 

Dust to dust falling

Adam’s atomizing

No death, no resurrection

Or upstart insurrection

 

The glorious rebellion

Of life over death

Requires Fall and demise

Before we can arise.   

 

            III

Give me the seasons

The constant reminders

Of youth’s immaturity

Of young’s insecurity.

 

Fall’s final whisper

Is quite pre-mature

It conjures reality

But not our finality.

 

The goal’s our maturity

Not youthful, or young

The goal’s our completion

Through death it’s hard won.

 

Light seeps through my window

Perfecting stainedglass

God quickens dust’s children

They grow up–at last.

 

 

Oct. 26, 2009

 

BW3

For Chris  Armitage