Fall's Farmer

That time of day that calls for dinner to be made
and I'm waiting for the doorbell to ring.
Eyes wander to the big, full windows of my
log cabin sanctuary called home.
Light lingers listfully on leaves,
saying loudly,
"Look!"

Autumn's harvest ever proclaiming
to a quiet neighborhood
that it may not think it's farm land
but Someone is ever farming the acres of our abodes.
Some Farmer who's an artist too,
arraying his plantings in colors
too magnificent for the eye
to even comprehend alone.

And He commissions the squirrels in their ways,
to plant and ensure the harvest never fails,
bluejays in their courses, fulfilling His word.
And all the meanwhile while my stove simmers soup
The scents of fall fill the air as the light lingers on.
And the leaves, they tell of glory.
Tell of an eternal Farmer whose bounty we only can sigh upon
(and mimic in our soup-making, floor-scrubbing, kiss-giving dominion and love).