by Martin Heflin

Created on: October 25, 2009

IN AUTUMN'S TIME

In shadow's night I stand dawn ridden

But full of sound

Like grackle flock that struts

Southward across the fall leafed lawn.

Tingle of frost on fingers' tips crawls

In ant steps on nerves cold, wet and raw.

It is the change though November late.

Soon Christmas and the New priorities,

Another slate slicky clean

In baby-butt newness

Awaits to be seen.

What then shall we be?

Or as the Russian said, What then must we do?

Mingling satisfaction of year done with

Anxiousness of what is to come,

I horizon gaze and know:

It is not the stariness or windswept sky

But crystal into God's mind and eye.

Another year to pass

Another grown old and withered on the

Vine of time but cold pressed will make

Oil or wine.

A dram and move on.

We cannot answer,

We cannot assure,

We can only wonder, love, think

And endure.

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