Autumn Leaves

(This little verse, which I originally wrote quite a few years ago, has a perspective on autumn foliage that is different from last week’s poem…)

Autumn leaves grasp
the colors of the rising sun
to mask the fact
that they are dying,
that their lives are nearly done.

Masquerading
in blushing crimsons,
empassioned ambers,
and glowing gold,
while their life’s blood
is leaving them
dry,
they seem to flaunt as they deny
what fate will unfold.

For they are too ephemeral,
too weak to last;
Death will seize them
in the dark and chill
of winter’s blast.

Yet, for a moment,
painted complexion
in bright reflection
warms the surface
of cooling waters deep;
And nothing seems as beautiful,
glorious and bountiful,
as leaves of Autumn trying not to weep.

photo credit: Dan Chase

photo credit: Dan Chase

Reposted from The Writings of Christina Chase

© 2014 Christina Chase

Sugar Maple in Autumn

Sugar maple

Photo © 2015 Dan Chase

The glory has just begun. The light of the inner sun radiates within every leaf, shining pale green at the heart and, growing bolder, the golden fire glowing more intensely as it spreads wide and high, out to the furthest reach, flames smolder at tips of fingers, orange praise against the hard blue sky.

Too good for this world…

A soul transfigured by heavenly rays, rising up, trembling in brightness – it must burst with life and break through to the other side… beyond fading, beyond dimness, to everlasting light!

Worn remnants

of earthly splendor left

to fall,

in heavy sighs

and whispered

goodbyes.

© 2015 Christina Chase

Childlike Joy

autumn leaves Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

How immature am I?

I went up the driveway for the sole purpose of coming down through the fallen leaves, which the wind had furrowed at the edge. That crisp, crackling sound of autumn underfoot, with the few remnants of golden leaves clinging to the bare limbs overhead, always elicits within me a feeling of merriment and rhythm of mirth. I did think that I must look like a person with diminished mental capacities (my most dreaded stereotype) going out of my way like that in order to maneuver my wheelchair over the dry leaves. But, I did it anyway.

To zigzag a sidewalk just to crunch the newly fallen oak leaves; to drive through the colorful drifts on rural roads; to rake up piles of the brittle bygones and jump in…. Perhaps the ones who are immature are those that consider this childish – while it is considered simply and blessedly childlike by those who are more fully human, fully alive.

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” [Matthew 18:3]

The dipping flight of brightly colored birds first lit the imagination of the child, joyfully kicking his baby legs upon his mother’s knee. How many birds did he startle into flight when he first began to run, his own pulse rising with the fluttering of their wings? The sultry scent of summer’s twilight, heavy with blossom and ripening fruit, stirred within the growing youth the sweet ache of beauty and a deep sense of longing and mourning, feelings he did not yet understand, the ebb and flow of earth. How many thick leaves did he pull from hedges to crush within his hand, the sharp pungency clearing his mind to marvel at the tender, green flesh on his muscled own? When grown, he submerged in clear running waters, traced patterns in fine soil, felt the swaying tips of grains brush his fingers as he walked, and knelt in grassy garden beneath the stars and evening trees….

The Creator is an awestruck creature; and no blade of grass, no pebble, bud, or grain of sand is left unloved.

The secret years of Christ were neither for his public ministry nor for the record of sacred books – they were for him. For his body and soul, senses, imagination, memory, and delight – for his sacrifice. For, the blood that he poured out from his Sacred Heart upon the Cross was the blood of a man who lived, who loved, who knew the exquisite beauty and childlike joy of body and soul.

How mature it is, then – the blessed privilege of a redeemed and sanctified human being – to travel the paths of earthly splendor with a heart full of heavenly delight.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

© 2014 Christina Chase