And the Wind Said

And the wind said,
Autumn is coming. It is close on my heels. Soon, I will melt the suffocating heat into fresh, dry cold. Soon, the allegory of death and rebirth will do its Dance Splendid across the stage, and it will dance to my music. For the live things will die, and shrivel, and sink, and wait for my voice. After Autumn, death.
Then I will come again and  I will breathe my breath of perfume and dogwood petals, and dry things will feel the sap of life beneath their bark. The clattering bones will turn to live and supple flowers, swaying to my song. The rebirth will begin. The continual retelling of an Old, Old Story of death and Resurrection. Autumn is the foreshadow of fulfilled prophesies, for with those souls in whom God takes pleasure, there is not death, only waiting. And a promise that something wonderful is about to happen.

As Incense Rising

Maker of my voice, content of my song,

you make me need to sing,

but when I sing I imitate

my Age and not the angels.

I wrestle for improvement, discovering

that men know little

of purity of praise;

our spectacles are smeared

with unholiness.

In my frustration I frown on

imperfections unmendable.

The birds worship better.

Still, my voice rises

the voice of the uncursed can only praise.

The father never tires of hearing  the untuned

voice of his little child;

and though I cannot rival the angels for quality,

I, the redeemed, am the mystery

even they cannot comprehend.

So, I, the imperfect, sing imperfections and am counted beautiful in my song,

as incense rising from the altar of my soul.