when the rain comes

Does God love golden leaves the way we love gold?
And what about the brown leaves
Wet and sticking on the lawn,
Does anyone love them?
What wealth do they bring?

We write memorials and
Send them up on smoke.
Light glitters and
Flits across golden leaves,
Leaving shadows of gloom on wet bark.

Brown leaves are pushed into piles;
Red, yellow, and green fall later.
With my rake and my tractor I pile
Them all, like governments, churches,
And men pile the gold. And the little,

People like me, emulate the Great,
By piling the leaves.
A chorus of mowers singing their
Lawns until the baptismal rains come.
Wet and dirty we change contemplating
The Rain.


About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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