To everything there is a season
Still at the turn of the dwindling day,
Spring’s verdant abundance seems wasted and worn,
its glowing complexion now pallid and wan,
as if Winter despised the promise of May.
Leaf embers cool before September blazes,
Summer’s briared passions burn down to bronze,
and a drab, brittle bracken displaces June’s fronds.
Where virulent thorns encircle our faces,
anxiety grows—until nothing else matters.
Like a rose in a slowly turned kaleidoscope,
life’s intricate pattern shifts—and then shatters.
Yet undeserved love can lift fear’s heavy yoke,
and the light of the Dayspring will leaven these shadows.
Stilled, but still turning, heavenward with hope.
Good Friday 2020