and the drying leaves,
Dying leaves,
Rustle with the footsteps
of the gardener,
The creator comes near.
Colors are so brilliant
that they hurt your eyes.
Yellow into orange into red.
Brown, foreshadowing death.
All against a blue, blue sky.
Free of snow, but ready.
The creator comes near.
The gardener trims the dead roses,
thorns bringing blood
that is wiped against the undergrowth.
Stained, like the sin in his life.
Dead growth is pruned away,
Weeds are ripped out
as the ground is prepared for emptiness.
Emptiness that will bring new life.
The creator comes near.
Finally in the house,
standing at the sink,
looking out over the garden,
the man washes away the dirt.
He feels the presence of the creator,
and he sends out a prayer.
For the hot water cleaning his hands,
warming his soul from the chill.
For the soup bubbling on the stove,
and the bread baking in the oven.
For the setting of the sun
on the golden splendor outside his window.
He offers up his gratitude
to the creator
who has come near.
Kim Matthews
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