Autumn
In their order
Seasons turn,
Not returning.
Leaf opens delicate,
Holds like gold,sunlight;
Decays in brilliance;
Falls under frozen fields.
Rooted in its own ruin
Will rise,
White-cloud blossom
Against blue:
All made new.
This recurring miracle
Of regeneration
Is no resurrection;
Not for leaf,not blossom,
Nor,O chilling thought,
For you and I,
Dearest love.
Below promise
I touch cold stone.
Yet,One came back;
Declares us free;
Reaches out loving,
Living hands.
To be lifted
I too must reach out,
Must know the proper
The only season
Is always today:
The stone rolled away.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved
Seasons turn,
Not returning.
Leaf opens delicate,
Holds like gold,sunlight;
Decays in brilliance;
Falls under frozen fields.
Rooted in its own ruin
Will rise,
White-cloud blossom
Against blue:
All made new.
This recurring miracle
Of regeneration
Is no resurrection;
Not for leaf,not blossom,
Nor,O chilling thought,
For you and I,
Dearest love.
Below promise
I touch cold stone.
Yet,One came back;
Declares us free;
Reaches out loving,
Living hands.
To be lifted
I too must reach out,
Must know the proper
The only season
Is always today:
The stone rolled away.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved