(for Mark T)

The cool forest is my cathedral.
Autumn leaves fall,
abandoning bough and branch
they stain the glassy pond below
each a sermon, a story of bud and bloom,
of green springs and the rich colors of decay.

Birds bear witness to the falling,
harmonies and hymnals, sung in a round,
an ambient concert, a day song,
testimony to breezes and the unseen hand,
the shaker of trees.