The fall wind has swept the
leaves from the yard it is still
warm as the sun sets; evening
twines its shadows among the
gravestones, hand in hand men,
women and children are silent
in the coming twilight.
Their breath a vapor in the departing
day, the pines sway, the evening is
taking on a mystery of its own; the
winds still and each gentle soul begins
to pass the broken bread.
Clouds gather, the hues of the season
spread across the landscape, the church
tower like a shrine points toward the
Heavens; supper in the churchyard
Oak, pine and wood shavings spring to
life as pyramids of fire leap toward the
Heavens; a slow melancholy hum flows
throughout those gathered and the night
air is filled with the spirit of the moment,
”Oh that circle want be broken…” rises to
meet the stars.
Childhood memories revisited, a little
white church, sweet secrets beneath the
tablecloths, children playing, old folks
praying, hope grew in the hearts of the
people; and in the hands of God, they
left their heavy loads.