Autumn Hope

The trees are weeping

Great arid tears

Of scarlet, gold, and flame—

Mourning winter’s onset,

Doubting spring will come again.

Autumn sings in minor key,

Bagpipes droning slave trader's hymn.

Loss, surrender, relinquishment thrum

Beneath the glory of the turning leaves,

The crisp cool air,

The gentler light.

Even as tree limbs release

Their grip on summer's glory

And exhalations of wind carry it

Down, down, down to the earth,

Farmers gather in their harvests,

Golden glory-fruit

Of many seeds of hope

Buried in soil

Nourished

By the weeping of the trees.

"I assure you: Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains by itself. But if it dies, it produces a large crop" (John 12:24, HCSB).