September morning breezes whisper the unrooting of summer’s green carpets and

blossomed meadows in anticipation of the changeless mystery of autumn and the

foretelling winter’s barren bone. While down below ancient earth produces again the necessary

spools and spools of burnished color to unravel, with giddy delight, across the mountains,

hills, and plains. The opened arms of branch and stem stand in glorious array before the final

stripping—to be undone at last, to surrender amidst upheaval and chaos, to know it’s finally

finished. And yet to hope—knowing the seed remains, the seed remains—buried in

darkness awaiting severity and mercy mingled—the planting, plowing, and reaping of justice.