Poetry

Some call it poetry, I call it loveliness.

My Cathedral

The past two mornings I woke up to some light frost dusting our lawn. It’s getting cold enough to where those cute fall jackets can no longer keep you warm and you want to be bundled in a heavy winter coat. I’ve felt in the air recently his cold presence, knowing that he is coming soon and Autumn is quickly giving way. But here in the South the trees hold on to their colourful fur a little longer, the almost naked trees looking ridiculous with small patches of six or seven leaves, passing back and forth in the wind, like a bald head, with a couple of hairs.

The fall season calls me to sit outside, but as the cold comes I sit within and watch. The late leavers make their way down the street in a gust of winter, running away somewhere. I look and see my favourite season going away for another year. Its done its job, it has called us all outside to crunch on leaves, to marvel and walk, to drink salty drinks and eat cinnamon apples, and now the end has come, the leaves and fields have had their beautiful death, and now we watch as the fields and trees lye open and still, vulnerable, ushering in winter’s glory.

But until he fully comes, I will share this lovely poem by Longfellow and praise the last of Fall around me, even those six leaves. I will let my heart be swept away as I walk down the path, surrounded on both sides of me tall towers of birch, my sanctuary, this holy, wild, place where God, myself, and nature meet.

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines

Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;

The arch beneath them is not built with stones,

Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,

And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;

No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,

No sepulcher conceals a martyr’s bones.

No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.

Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,

Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!

Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,

In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,

Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,

And learn there may be worship with out words.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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