Our Own Stained Glass

Fall often

Stains our world brown,

Leaves the color

Of an old ruddy gold,

Their tips dry,

Crinkling with the cold

That sweeps through our souls;

A veil of bleary eyes

Dulled from a bright

Summer soil

To a tired

Winter muck;

Tree branches whisper

Melancholy songs

Through bare bark

Stripped of their flimsy green hope

Soaked with the sun;

The gowns of ruddy gold,

Though,

Can be polished,

Scrubbed by wishes calloused

With desperation,

Can be hemmed

With views once used

To ward away anything

We didn’t want to deal with,

Patchworking each marvelous

Shade of brown

Into what we want to see 

In autumn:

Our own

Stained glass.