I, In My Consternation
Naked branches of November's oak
grasp at dawn's slate sky
before the lake's mirror
as though for sustenance.
I stand at water's still edge,
seeing the tree's perfect reflection
gnarled in umber chaos,
reaching for proof of truth
in the wasteland of decaying society,
that there is still a connection
binding us through turmoil
of death, separation and change
intruding upon our modern lives.
Leafless limbs reach heavenward
in arboreal prayer for a glimpse of confirmation.
I, in my consternation wonder
if there's any point to my search.
Should I always have faith
in the future unknown
of God's guiding hand,
or should I accept that we are doomed
to disperse like the tree's October leaves
and blow away, leaving our shared past
at the mercy of the elements?
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