In the beginning were the leaves,
and the leaves were fragile and beautiful,
and the leaves were on the tree.
The beauty and the fragility was life –
scarlet and golden,
and apples were with the leaves
and harvest and hope.
And there were saints to remember
and all souls – saintly and not so saintly,
and candles in pumpkins
lit for all their spirits.
And there were children begging
from door to door
with sheets on their heads.
Children were not the Word,
but we heard it from their lips.
And we came to Thanksgiving
but we couldn’t understand it –
not gratitude,
not living water, bread of life, vine,
not foot washing, many rooms,
not even needing to let go.
The leaves fell from the tree
and we did not look up
into dark branches silhouetting truth
against November sunset.
But we be-leaved in our stubborn
raking up, lonely way
that something would be born –
not of blood nor of human will,
nor even of Advent season,
but of God.
And the Word became flesh,
full of grace, fragile
and beautiful and hanging on a tree.
©Maren Tirabassi
Image Mari Helin, www.unsplash.com
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