By Sarah Reardon

Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed.” I Corinthians 15:51

Atop each autumn’s height there stands a time
When gold and amber scintillate and singe
Each searching eye. We climbed the hill in mind
Of shadows glimpsed, of hints to which we inched.
Among sprigs gently-trembling stands something
Not glimpsed before, below, but caught at peak:
This season, standing mostly still, sings.
Of time for all good, given things, it speaks,
And here, the days of harvest reach their height.
In the moment’s twinkling eye, a change
Befalls us trembling spectators: new life
Imperishable springs in falling. Death’s change
Will reify since-fallowed gold, and not all
Fallow but will follow the season’s call.

About the Author

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