Woolgathering In Autumn
Leaves chant in brown, "Thirty days hath November, too."
What is that I hear? I draw a lingering breath,
as I contemplate this year, the outwash of death.
Autumn has arrived. And I remember anew...
We grasshoppers rest, unlike the diligent ant;
chills we don't address and our breakdowns break again.
Short of sevenfold success, winter will bring pain.
My hope: that God will bless our striving, scarce and scant.
At this November's arrival, the count is bleak;
we search for humility; second, we lack truth.
Where is civility? Murder and theft reign uncouth.
For mankind's survival, selfish mayhem we wreak.
Are we connecting the dots of winter's design?
In our bent to fight, peace and patience are displaced;
whereas compassion and foresight we have disgraced,
to deliberate woolgathering we resign.
October 7, 2020
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