Poetry

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Brighter Days

Desolate trees
without their leaves
By all appearance, forsaken
Their sad, lone branches
reach to the sky
In pleas for spring's returning.
So silent, so alone they dwell
No life it seems is theirs,
Cold winter's threat
has chilled their hearts;
No joy is in the air.

But patiently
they stand and wait
Conformed to careful plan;
Their questions muted by knowledge that
Their times are in God's hands.

What meets the eye,
though oftentimes,
Would turn our hearts to grieving,
Has a deeper story to be told
When we still ourselves to listen.

For it is better for the tree to rest
Than fret its sad dilemma;
It needs but reflect
on autumns past
To know there is a reason.
Spring will come,
With autumn's promise
Fulfilled in its bright day;
With ample time to praise the One
Who fashioned it that way.

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