After a long summer
The angelic artists
Are cleaning their brushes
In anticipation of the coming cold.
All those paints mixed in spring
in preparation for warmer days,
first stroking long grasses,
tree branches budding,
greens, yellows, browns,
then softly dabbing
in quiet meadows and orchards
before finally filling those glorious summer gardens,
with reds and blues purples, gold, and orange,
overflowing and strong.
The excess now shaken off tired bristles
splattering the forests of fall
in haphazard beauty,
rinsed in the silent lakes and ponds,
filling them with muted shades, pastels
all framed by the grey skies
of the encroaching winter,
empty branches stark, black, imploring
Somehow providing hope
that the full spectrum of creation
will spring yet again
as the days begin to lengthen,
the circle unbroken,
brushes filled again.