Deep within this pile of moulding leaves,
pungent with the smell of autumn's rot,
lies a meaning mine alone to find.
I grip my pen, my spade, and dig in haste
and race the dusk that settles too soon in the day,
and fear the fading light–
theophany may not survive the night–
it may be lost, returned to dust.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.