seasons
Walking among trees being stripped,
the graveyard of colors at my feet,
branches above slowly being robbed,
air chilling, reaching farther into me,
I can’t shake the gentle dread
that something more will be required,
something taken, or outgrown,
requiring a reckoning of grief,
no loss God wants to save me from,
no turning that I want to miss,
a coming free that will not feel like such,
a birth resembling autumn’s lovely death.
I know no other passage through these woods.
The small path reaches out to me.
I feel my breathing, steady, slow and small.
The forest turns around me as I go.
Mist rises from the farm field to the west,
that slowly fills with yellow morning light.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
life: acoustic & amplified 