Gray clouds burnished by hints of hidden sunrise
bunch together in the autumn skies of northeast Kansas.
Above the slopes and bluffs,
slight hues of pink color the scuffed edges
that trail eastward above the ridges.

In this particular tint of day,
the greens seem to fade like the patterns 
of a well-worn blanket draped across the shoulders
of an old woman standing silent in a warm kitchen,
one hand braced against the counter,
staring out through a small window.

In this quietening morning of frost and chill,
with stillness spreading across the hills,
the orange, yellow, gold, and red colors of fall,
though absent the bright sun,
somehow seem to glow in this low light.

Sometimes on a somber day,
quiet beauty speaks through muted tones.
Perhaps, sounds of aloneness and loss,
whispering soft as moss on stone 
in the moist shadows of a creek falls
as clear water rinses clean the smooth edges
and murmurs comfort along the ledges
stretching from the shallows.

Even in this, 
or perhaps, especially in this,
the Spirit eases into the emptiness,
speaking peace and promise to the still-aching heart,
its pain seen by the eyes of angels,
its needs spoken 
before the very Throne of Heaven.

H. Arnett
10/24/24