To the Gate

Me and the unsurpassedly lovely Addy T. Photo taken by the unbeatable and unmistakable Dally.

Autumn leaves kiss winter’s frost.

I wait.

The breath of the morning is frozen

And my chest aches with a cough, but I run.

I run.

Just to the gate, not beyond,

For it looks lovely, sparkling in the bright sun.

Gently, gently, gently,

Says the morning with a laugh.

But I am young and stupid

And I would rather save gently for withered hands and crippled feet.

To the gate, then, I stumble.

Oh, aching lungs, would that you could breathe a little deeper of this purity,

Would that you could laugh a little longer,

Or sing a song to the Maker of this abundance.

But gently, gently, gently. You’ve reached the gate now.

These farmers’ fields spread out before me,

At the end of their bounty, but not the end of their beauty

For God has painted them in earthen gold,

Not to die, but to live and proclaim the works of the Lord.

I think my heart is full to bursting with their life,

Where my own had shriveled in the fear of loneliness and the dread of emptiness.

But now my weary, cold-weakened body drinks deep the cup of holiness,

And it is enough—Oh, God, you are enough!—

My being cries out in deep-seated hope,

For my resurrection eyes will always see fields full of gold, and I know,

I know that the Beginning is nigh.