The
sycamores peel silver as
A
man who, weak, old, wrinkled, has
Seen
autumn's chill and settled in
To
Christ who cleanses of all sin.
The
wind births in their limbs a song.
Leaves
rustle crackled, crinkled, strong,
And
trembling, warm and soft they sing
As
if they're falling into spring.
No comments:
Post a Comment