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