Hymn Two (Unsung)

Hymn Two (Unsung)

October again. Sunflowers cease their brash yellowing show.
Oaks and ashes flicker modestly in cool winds, whipping through town.
Sumac is coming red.
Each Monday more fields turn under—stubble and muted furrows
pressed low to morning skies. The morning heaves with no sound
save our own prayer, whispered, said.

Like the mid-day tolling of an unseen bell, O LORD,
like soft patter of drops on a dry, acrid window,
my meaty heart tightens.
Like roiling clouds, an autumn squall, the grey scud roar,
like the hidden twilight on horizon peeking, trying to grow,
to brim and brighten

another day before another night, First Artist, Fall Creator,
You animate dead flesh, breathe spirit into a tired night-mind.
In me, sunflower and sumac meet.
You wed them in pure autumn union always greater.
Morning forgotten. Day, now through. Even night falling behind—In color and contrast, shape and line, I, Your living landscape, complete.

Michael P. Carriger