October Invades

Waiting on Hope

Held deep within my chest, my very being,
the smallest seed is nestled, waits for spring.
The Gardener has tilled without me seeing,
made fertile ground where all I saw was sin.

And, seeing not the soul nor its true state,
I balked to think my being could be transformed,
but in my chest the sleeping seed awaits
and sends its roots and tendrils to my core.

Then, at the time appointed for its growth,
it breaks the fallow surface of my skin;
the hope that lay beneath has been exposed
and we are startled by the change within.

The Gardener, the one who placed the seed,
has planted hope and possibility.

So October invades, and with it all the death in autumn. All our hopes that rest in lesser things are getting burnt up like so many dead leaves. That security in summer money flakes and peels to reveal something rotten; crack that sitting stump, to maggots and a stench of death. And when that chill October wind sets home our loneliness, we know our hope is not companionship. Your house, your job, your car; shed autumn fire until they sit like blackened skeletons or funeral pyres. Mostly just that curious idea that your hope for a future rests in one other person. When down beneath the crust of dirt that's quickly freezing over, there's a deeper current and a seed that's buried in good earth. That seed is hope in the One who holds all possibility in his hand.