Gray Harvest


The leaves are turning once again. Fronds of the pampos herald in the harvest.
Strange words today, herald and harvest. One might ask what the hell?
Bells and whistles hard drives spin, or other elemental geek speak then
Wow!  What a download!
I’m so often lost in the dust, with aging eyes and ears to trust.
It should come as no surprise, I listen more closely and watch more keenly
for a familiar sight or sound. A herald shouting clear and true
in syllables that once I knew as plain talk on a simple day in Clearview.
There was no doubt. I knew it red or green or gold
when all the autumn hues unfolding declared, it is good.
Leave the lap top and just go.
Enjoy what God has bestowed and know it is good. Let the rhythm ebb and flow
without the the whirl of AC DC. If there is a system crash either the Bic’s gone dry
or the writer has. No biggie. God is in control.
The leaves are turning once again, the golden rods announce it too.
Queen Ann’s lace and asters do. It is time.
Where have all the monarchs gone, the humming birds,
cicadae’s song? How do we miss the signs?
Burdened with the grand designs of time savers.
We’re packing more and more into less and less.
It is good, yes?
Rushing here, rushing there find a harvest of despair.
Where is the color? Who’s to care?
The leaves are changing once again. Different signs for different men?
Not really. Perception is the father of many children,
but righteousness is the mother of truth.
Some may say, but on our way we flew far above the fray.
We saw the quaking aspen glow, the hews of maple and oak we know.
A beautiful display it is, a biological masterpiece. Sugars release in fading light
and slowing photosynthesis, a tapestry indeed it is.
Where is God’s glory when upon our silver wings the kaleidoscope of autumn brings
a harvest of gray. It is good? Yea, right.
The leaves are changing once again. The chill of winter is no friend.
Some may say along their way, as daylight fades and cold nights grow,
is spring a time we’ll ever know again. A few short weeks and then it’s gone.
The cold and damp chills to the bone. Pretty doesn’t mean too much in the
dead of winter. Where is God’s glory when the toil of life brings a harvest of gray.
It is good. It is good. Should I say it more? Shout it to the walls, louder, longer, screaming now,
IT IS GOOD. What then am I left with, a sore throat for all my trouble?
Multi color morning glories paint the thirsty earth. Lacing broken concrete chunks with
hulks of rusting steel. October dews grow heavy, West Georgia kudzu slows.
The leaves are turning once again. Given time we’ll know, it is good. 
 

 

 

 

 

 

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About jingeorgia

Searching high and low no matter where i go it always seems the same: shades of grey. Or, was that gray?
This entry was posted in jrw Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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