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3 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 2 A time to be born, and a time to die; Ecclesiastes 3:1-2a KJV
A CRIMSON HOPE
The late September wind blows leaves across the already leaf-strewn acres about me.
The breeze whispers of winter days, as yet unbirthed.
Weakening sunshine hovers timidly on my shoulders
and reminds me that summer has gone.
One tree already wears a crimson sash
across its’ bosom,
with the promise of a more brilliant wardrobe to come.
I, too, feel caught between life’s seasons,
my summer clearly past,
my autumn already partially flown.
Winter whispers in the wind,
and here I sit basking in the last of the warmth of seasons’ past.
” Where do I go from here, Lord?”
Senior years beckon.
Memories of past years linger.
Sunlight weakens.
Days shorten.
I wait at a
crossroads.
Then, I glance back at that one glorious tree and pray.
“Lord, help me to face my last season like this tree of autumn:
in glowing exit,
joy-splattered,
and, for all to see,
with crimson banners—
and eternal hope.”
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