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
Sarah Reardon is a teacher from Maryland. She has worked as Managing Editor for Front Porch Republic, and her writing has appeared in First Things, Plough, Ekstasis Magazine, and elsewhere.