Thatchwork Spilt.

Thatchwork Spilt.

In the Autumn woods
where the fall foilage
becomes spoilage,
I stand in awe of this
patchwork quilt,
this thatchwork spilt.

Intricately woven
from summers ends,
all the leavings
of a season,
tattered scraps
of what was
in brilliant oranges,
red, and yellows
tumbled together with
briars and twigs,
to make my path.

Through sun

dappled splendour,
that only God

could render.
I linger in the
late afternoon haze,
realizing that I am
just another

speck of color,
soon to be swept

away as well,
by the winds of fate,
from my family tree,
and then woven

into the stitches
of time that make up
all eternity.


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