Does summer know you’re leaving?
Leaving leaves to senescence?
You’ve shuttered your
first zones, I see.
Closed some taps.
I know your obedience.
your death to self.
Soon, she will too.
Those wrenching tears,
that hard abscission.
First ride blows into town and
you’ll send them packing.
And, IN AN EGGSHELL, SM posts from earlier this week:
“Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them.”
(Note the raft at lower left, for scale.)
Salmon River, Idaho
“And I will make all my mountains a road . . .”
“The first little pig soon met a man with a load of straw. ‘Please, mister, will you give me some straw to build a house?'”
“He has filled them with skill to do every sort of work done by an engraver or by a designer or by an embroiderer in blue and purple and scarlet yarns and fine twined linen, or by a weaver—by any sort of workman or skilled designer.”
Blessings, friends. I’m glad you’re here.
Watching Nature, Seeing Life: Through His Creation, God Speaks