Sometimes the dull, dropped, dark dank, leaves of fall

Lie broken under foot,

Like death,

Busted like dry bones crackle.

And sometimes

The path through canopy of trees,

The wood’s own trail of life

Seems paved with aged confetti,

Strewn from spring’s gay party on the path.

The leaves the same, the framing changed.

It is both and it is nature’s way,

A cycle of seasons

Under foot and heavenward

And all around.

The woods tell stories, whispered

Stories. Listen and

Be still sweet soul,

In all and know that He is

God.

While you wonder,

While you wander,

And while you still sit

In weathered chair, of life,

Be still sweet one

And know.

Joining Deidra for her lovely Sunday Community.