November 27, 2015

Death to Life

It's November, and I'm surrounded by
death and decay.
As the leaves hit the ground
and begin to brown and crisp,
it occurs to me that
fall is a picture of the fall
of man.

All through the bleak winter the trees will
point and reach.
When they stretch heavenward,
it's as though they are crying
out to God for new life.
They yearn for something beyond
the bleak.

And in the spring their buds will
burst forth brightly.
Unbeknownst to the trees,
God was already stirring life
within them, irresistible.
Soul's spring is impossible without
our God.



  1. Beautiful. I love your meter. The rhythm takes you along.

  2. Thanks, Kent. Poetry is a new venture for me. Here's my only other (published) attempt:


We don't all have to agree, but please be nice!