The last of fall now whisks away
with autumn’s final breath
Fluttering like butterflies
leaves take their final rest

These desiccated lie in state
on combed quiescent grass
then burned in piles like funeral pyres
and left to smoldering ash

But nature has sweet aspirant dreams
like buds of fall on branch
in wait before the maiden snow
with hope to flower again

Yet they will face dark freezing nights
that dead of winter brings
But one day these will burst to life
as blossoms in the Spring

What meaning does this hold for me
There’s questions left to ask
How were we made and when we die
Is there a second chance

Ageless words say dust to dust
We each have our own view
But in my heart I hold this truth
God makes the flower bloom

A poem by Greg Nelson
© 2020 by Poppie’s Hallel (BMI. Admin. by Amplified Administration)

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