Neither the Mountain
to me ought a thorn be,
Nor the deep Valley
present a hurt to my fall.

This Creation,
thy little lord should be.
This Creation
a Song stirred should please.
Alas, this Creation
a Fallen Man he is.

Whence affliction cometh forth?
From whence the hurt
that ****** my aches?
What suffereth my being to wail?
And wrought bareness
to wholeness of bones?

Bringing me to heights,
the Mountain should be.
Expounding me mysteries,
the Valley should delight.

Then, why speaketh thou
sore distress for my hurt?
Why casteth thou down,
and exalt my tribulations!!!

Hath thou no pleasure
in thine maker?
Nor any weariness
of His rebuke as a sword?

Surely, He formed thee
whole in perfection,
As for me, conceived
in darkness of the fallen,
Rejoice not in this afford.
For grace shall speak, Selah.

I will love you when winters are old and summers are tired;
I will love you between all hours;
For my mind only wonders with you and what can I say about the heart, it’s fallen too.

it feels as if everything
needs to be done all at once
watching all your fallen words
while you become a ghost in my presence
a subtle trembling “I'm not ready”
unable to breathe you in
you needing time & space
feeling like any other given reason
strung out to dry
will make you fall further behind

forgotten are
those bright
autumnal colours
of the freshly fallen
no longer able
to offer
a crisp rustling
with each step
a whisper that
invites child
and adult alike
to kick
   and shuffle
playfully
ignoring the bite
of frost
unwelcomed
by noses
and fingertips

those downbeat leaves
lately of such
seasonal delight
have been rejected
by bough
   and branch
drifting meekly
without protest
or wrenched
from arboreal familiarity
by gusting wind
or gloved hand
turned to mulch
by constant downpours
muddily trodden upon
without second thought
clinging to any
passing boot
trainer or shoe
only to be scraped
and scuffed
on pavement
   or curb
stomped in a puddle
left behind