A gray day but the garden is alive with wings:

autumnal foragers, intent on little birdy quests

for sustenance. 

They dart and scoot among trailing spider’s web strings,

late-fading flowers, remnants of last spring’s nests –

searching for turk’s cap hips and sunflower seeds,

the thanksgiving feast we are pleased to provide.

(Meeting their need for cold-weather feed

means we get to watch them dance, from inside.)

Deciduous trees color late this year;

summer dragged its feet on the way out the door.

Collision of seasons yields hues sharp, clear –

pale yellow roses, fiery maple, inky ironwood spore.

The waning of the year and time for dying back

alongside iris flags in amethyst and cosmos peeping pink…

Where are the boundary lines? Where is the lack?

No delineation betwixt or between. What to think?

I press my face against chill window pane

count the finches, doves, cardinals, one splendid jay;

treasure the sense that this scene will remain

long beyond the ashes of this particular day

because all I see testifies to what will last:

beauty of Creation and Creator’s perfect plan –

the future reiterating the promise of the past;

faithfulness repeating. 

I don’t have to understand.

Just accept. Acknowledge. Receive:

This greatest gift, capacity to believe.