Songs

Autumn is here. I see it in the way the leaves trade out their garments of green for red and orange. It seems even the trees have fashion sense, and who can blame them? Autumn is here, and orange is the new green, red is the new pink. 

Autumn is here, and there's something about the brown grass and the crisp air and the dead, cast-off tree-clothes crunching under my feet. Why does this time of sleep and death and endings speak beauty instead of pain? Autumn is here, and my heart is inexplicably moved. 

Autumn is here, and the rocks burst forth and cry to the sky of the Voice that my lips so often forget to mention. Their songs are enough to awaken my soul to the truth of what it all means.

Autumn is here, and I sing. I sing of summer's death, I sing of early shadows, I sing of fallen leaves, of wind whipping across my face, of dappled sunlight, sweatshirts, and watery eyes.

Autumn is here, and I sing of the Voice that speaks it into existence this year, as He has every year previous.