Thursday, April 4, 2019

Before the Fall...















I remember the warmth of an April morn…
the songbirds singing before the dawn,
the mourning dove with her call forlorn;
the gathering clouds before the storm.

I still feel the sway of a summer breeze…
the breath of God blowing through the trees;
the sound of His whisper inside the leaves
and come the evening, a cool reprieve.

Can still smell the scent of an autumn day
the dry fallen leaves turning to decay
with deep earthen smells of soil and clay
and nature’s full pallet on display.

Last to arrive came the ice and snow,
the garden, now frozen, down below
wood smoke arising from fire’s glow
the world spread before us in white tableau.

I still remember all of these things:
how far we’d come before the fall,
so little of that time remains…
 We never really had a plan.
Now dust storms howl over barren plains
while all things precious turn to rust—
so too, this world returns to dust…
 thus dies the golden age of man.


© Ginny Brannan 2019

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