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,
Of many seeds of hope
Buried in soil
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).
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