Still Morning Ice Drops drip
Walking to haul wood for the stove
The trees have carpeted the path with themselves
sacrificing to the cold the colours left when photosynthesis cannot any more
as they shed summer and fall pushing the liquids of life back into the ground protecting themselves
from the expansion of freezing that would tear out their hearts.
In the still air as the light of warmth reaches through the tops to the yellow carpet below
the trees cry ice drops,
melting from the freezing night’s moisture collected on leaves not yet having succumbed like their fallen comrades
to the wretched destruction of passing time,
or
to the blessed transition from green biting-bug-and pollen-filled hot days transitioning to the cool respite of fall.
.
Drip, drop, drip … it is time
time to prepare
time to celebrate what was
time to prepare for what will come
time to haul wood, trees murdered for a bit of white bark or taken as the victim’s of drug-hyped-senslessness and bravado that a madman with an axe can fell living trees just for the show of it, for the false exuberance of finally being able to master something, since he could not master himself.
Drip, drop, drip … it is time
time to prepare
for the Light of Christ to shine in the darkness.