Rattle the orchard’s knotted limbs
and harvest from the fray,
forsaken garnets snared in doubt,
betrothed to blind decay.

Tune your soul to the air of expectance
that wavers in the grass…
of smoke sewn into ripened groves
as hours straddle past.

The whip of wings atop the hollow
trumpets the waning year…
a song unwritten, once laid by,
reborn and shuttled near.

The Lord entwines His hand with ours
fastened to our lives
and plucks us each, while bruised and marred
as a lone protected prize.

A thousand candles pierce the shutters
tethering our stride.
The Spirit sounds a lifelong score
that tugs us to His side.