Amidst the ashes of our winter
arose the altars of our spring.
In those days
we saw no need, no need at all
for any other shift
when we fully believed that there was yet time
to what we might aspire to,
to what we so clearly required.
Without thinking we partook
of all that summer placed on our platters
and slumbered still in the midst
of a feast of festivity in this dear season
when we drank in all manner of sights and sounds
amidst the springs and summers
of this winter of ours
when arose the altars
of our falling stars of days long past.
Yet there above these stars
we found that we were not alone.
the festive summer of ourselves and our shifting suns
is, was, will be
He beyond the time-worn memory of our winters
of this all too brief season;
He, stretching His hand over our days.
There was the
winter of ourselves
when we had visions
of the spring of our now,
when we saw no need,
we saw no need at all.
For we did not truly see beyond our summer feasts.
We, therefore, saw no need,
no, no need at all to reach beyond our stars,
beyond our altars
who measured heaven with a span
who measured its waters in the hollow of His hand
who instigated the days and months of this all too brief season
who offered grace and promise to man in his grief
in this all too brief space of time.
He is that grace,
that Father, that Son, that Spirit,
that inconceivable conceivable God of all seasons
who has always known
even so what we ought to know,
what we need, what we do indeed now need
beyond the falling altars of our autumn.
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