It’s strange to think that autumn’s heart –
life-giving death through auxin’s seep,
that toxin pumped into those veins –
the charge to leave, be sacrifice.
So when time calls, obedience,
down to its grave, as fall intends,
but like the harrowing of hell,
’tis mete and right the brittle ones
give rise to hope, new life, rebirth.
The cycle wheels as lives laid down
becomes the life-blood, sapling growth;
the tree is life-incarnate source
as winter mourning dawns in spring.
For underground the work is done,
a metamorphic miracle,
as air admitted, turning worms,
and water, earth, fire of the sun,
prove elements combined have won.
The tree, the fall, grave consequence,
finds resurrection in itself,
creative gardens, universe,
lore Eden to Gethsemane.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com