the hardwoods hold tight to their spring couture.
our woods cling to shades of ragged green —
the dogwoods alone have morphed to burgundy.
It’s not that we lack for fall color: we just turn our eyes down and out, rather than up.
In flatlands or foothills, who can’t love a pumpkin patch in harvest time,
or yellow peppers on the vine?
Who can’t smile at a daisy’s drive to launch one more bloom,
at a charming church and a bright blue sky?
As the seasons march through their yearly turn,
who wouldn’t vote to convict the mighty culprit who stands in the dock, clearly guilty of grandeur?
God’s thumbprints are everywhere.