by Cheryl Dunkley
The falling leaves scatter before me, like my thoughts
Whirling, clicking, dashing across the grass at the whim of the wind.
Small piles collect in corners under trees and by the step.
Some press against the fence as if to escape,
Only to drop back when calm returns.
A pattern repeated over and over.
On any day the grass is clear,
But now the green is dotted with crinkled crunch,
the air musty and cooler.
God’s precious seasons appear in perfect order
Reminding us He is in His Heaven
and is conducting the earthly orchestra….