against a gray and gloomy sky
the crimson oak leaves wildly wave
they’ll drift into an early grave
forgotten by the passers-by
All articles filed in november
the dangling conversation
… for now, the morns are meeker than they were …
… and the crows above the forest call; tomorrow they may form and go …
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november morning
when i woke this morning
the ground lay thick with leaves
november walk
a sparkle in the morning sun —
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the end
everything that begins must finish
nor would i wish it to continue
dear those these days have been
thanksgiving on the prairie
gold-bleached grasses bend
in the wind while ice frosts
the slender fingers of every
black-barked tree
in between the lines
emily, i am tired —
emily, what shall i write?
early comes the encroaching night
golden hour has warmed
the brown of dry leaves
to bronze
prime
awake, my soul
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the body of Christ
what did You look like
Son of God?