Have you noticed the leaves?
They're changing color. Falling, softly. Making a winter's blanket for mother earth.
Have you counted the colors, noticed how they mix and match?
What about the wind? Like a band leader, he provides melody for dancing.
Up. Up. Similar music transcends. Sun and clouds show off their latest riffs.
The forest's canopy crescendos, then a decrescendo glistens. Soft. Light.
On the drive to school we counted the colors, looked for yard decorations, and wondered about seasons.
It's too early for Christmas music, but the sentiment's there.
It's too late for rum, but the taste lingers like a phantom limb.
I stand outside. Still. While the world turns.
The kingdom of heaven is like a parking lot.
A church parking lot
where spaces are gotten, but mostly free.
Cars, trucks, vans (and even motorcycles) have their place.
Most days the parking lot patiently waits.
At times for a patron.
Always for a visitor.
Occasionally, a school bus, delivery truck, or mail carrier making use of its asphalt turns ‘round. The twist leaves tire marks like an icon of repentance.
The kingdom of heaven is like a well-worn parking lot,
its tacit function not altogether obvious.
Think parking? It shows you a pilgrim.
Found a spot? Next time, it’s claimed.
One’s sweltering plight? Find relief through its sultry saints.
and lot, remembered
and forgotten at once.