The leaves scuttle across my windshield
Whispering “it’s coming, it’s coming,”
As if to say, the autumn of life is here
The delusion that this place, this time
Is all we ever wanted -
This delusion, this prison,
It’s dying.
My desire for these familiar,
Insufficient feelings
Is floating away on the groaning wind.
The earth moans in its shadowed captivity,
Tossing, turning, waiting.
The leaves pile up on the ground,
Decaying
Preparing the way
They whisper “it’s coming, it’s coming,”
And out of the musty death push
Burgeoning tendrils
Of the greenest green
Of liberation
Of new birth
Of redemption
These, the mere intimations
Of the exquisite bright of the
Summer sun
They whisper “it’s coming, it’s coming,”
And I hear the trees, the birds, the very clouds
Hold their breath in expectation
I too, watch the skies
For Freedom is very near