|The tree outside our front door|
by Elisabeth Gmeyner
Golden light is turning grey,
Mists begin to rule the day.
Bare the trees their branches lift,
Clouds of dead leaves earthwood drift.
Through the field the farmer goes,
Seeds of ripened corn he sows,
Trusts the earth will hold it warm,
Shelter it from cold and harm.
For he knows that warmth and light
Love there, hidden from our sight,
And beneath a sheltering wing
Deep below new life will spring.