Autumn Garden

All green is giving way to shades of brown
And forms have less of formal attitude,
Less single-minded straining from the ground
To seek the sun in each brief interlude.

A stiff wind bows the asters, midas-eyed;
It stirs the round mums into portly play
And in the warp and weft of vines beside
The damp and purple evening hides by day.

In spiky clusters or in brittle shells
The sparks of life play their charade of death,
But earth from many-layered years expels
A somber thrill of joy with every breath

And seasons past, impressed upon our heart
Are God-breathed shadows of eternal art.

– Kathryn Boswell,

Nashotah House, October 2008

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