The Grace of Autumn

Summer’s end

cathedral windows

paint pale canvas,

dapple our shadows

with sight,

for colors pieced and patched

quilt earth to sky;

precious colors

once hidden within,

made plain by grace,

grace us.

Wild wind drives them,

shakes loose last grips

sending them hurtling

heading who knows where

when they catch,

to gently find their rest.

How like these fall’s last leaves are we,

when struggle with wildwind

Spirit or Fear gives way,

and in letting loose our last grips

to the power of now-anointed wind

find our fingers grasped by God.

How great this grace,

poking, prodding,

filling every empty space

with scarlet, crimson, burnished gold,

an autumn smell and sound,

burnt crackle color freckling clouds with fire.

Unseen seen,

ever surprise,

words, wonders,

chance not chance

but guided good

subtly woven in us,

through us;

look what God has made for us.

His finger holds us,

knows each vein, each stripe of light,

recognized design,

within-woven,

fire wrought from fire to be fire;

look what God has made of us.

How great this grace whose hand we hold.