Late September
washes a season’s green
beyond field and village
and age seventeen;
only leaves rinsed in afterglow
stir at Joseph’s homespun
He once knelt in
April grove,
drenched with that glory
of Father and Son.
Then summer
wove roots through
his harrowed soul
as those parched by mockery
claimed the heavens
Autumn wind
shimmers into the trees,
quickening vision
of his pending task;
these hands will
lift voices
silenced by stone,
fullness like morning
tide gathering

Photo by Welden Andersen