The remaining cotton plants
Now have gone golden.
Fibers hanging from pod
Still brightly white
Hear it Call across the river
Song Giving way to the white
In response
the sycamore barks.
see her lift her limbs
Is her shed skin
An offering to God?
No longer do
Her leaves tremble.
They have fallen
In display
Her prophecy
Not In secrecy.
For any who'd listen
Bright her under-bark
As she strains a warning.
We all are to shed
Skin and tears
Sloughing and dripping
As we fall away
As we die to ourselves
Each day
The gift of this temporary life
The great dress rehearsal
As we learn not to mourn
the deaths.
As we learn not to mourn
what has fallen away.
rejoice in tender newness.
foster the healing.
protect the fragile.
give praise for the beauty
of each day.



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