Leaves on the Ground

The carpet is yellow, flecked with brown death,
a stunning thing, here for just a day,
maybe two, the perfect confluence
of wind and time and color.

There is no one else to see.
These woods are deep and there are no paths.
You have wandered here, deep in thought
paying no attention to where your feet led

until you arrived,
until the sun came out
and rousted you out of your reverie,
and forced you to see,

to bear witness of God’s madcap abundance,
that he fills even the empty places
with profligate beauty.

About this poem

When I was in my darkest places, my therapist would urge me to stop several times a day and simply look for something beautiful. And guess what? There was always something.

Inspired by a walk. Bringing back that memory. Those were the inspirations this morning.

Be well. Travel wisely.

Tom