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.