The Past Tells About God

The leaves turn, autumn rainbows of gold and fire.
Then they fall, flutter down lightly,
Brushing the grass as they land quietly.

Soft.

Still.

Sometimes, somehow, you can hear it.

And seasons turn, life a rainbow of love and time.
Then they fall, fade into memory,
Tracing a story from all the yesterdays.

Soft.

Still.

Sometimes, you will think of it.

Remember the good, and the Giver.
Remember the bad, and the Grace.
Remember the joy, and the Provider.
Remember the hard, and the Peace.

Remember the love, and the God is love.


[Linking up with Imperfect Prose]

2 comments :

  1. sigh. the soft, the still... the Giver. yes. thank you for this. it was such comfort to my soul. e.

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