"Leaf" image courtesy of dan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
“Leaf” image courtesy of dan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

By Andrew Lazo

Well. Harvest.

As I whined last year, Autumn doesn’t offer much to Texans. Sure, Patricia made it rainy enough to hide inside all weekend with some of my better books. But still, no color, no fire, no reliable chill. It’ll be ninety and humid again soon enough.

I think I miss most the slow emptying-out of Autumn, watching the leaves fall from trees like some reverse game of Bingo, tracing that unbelievable alchemy as orange and red and gold go grey.

So as I thought about what to turn in this time, I came up with nothing, which is precisely the same amount as living in this tropical zone offers in the way of Autumn. Pumpkin spice my ass — where’s my mojito?

I therefore started three or four miserably failed attempts to write a sonnet about emptiness. At one point I even worked “Mother Hubbard” and “patroness” into iambic pentameter. No mean feat. I don’t advise it.

Then I remembered this scrap from the other day, and I opened it up and it began to sing some. So I rounded it into shape, such as it is, and here it stands before you. Like the trees soon, it too is naked–it doesn’t even have a title. The wrist-band from the hospital nursery said “Disproportion” but now I’m not at all sure. Suggestions welcome. Sponsored naming rights available for a negotiable fee.

So here’s all the harvest I have for now, and it’ll have to do. And if I know enough about a bunch of you, that’s more than enough (leaving me almost as bewildered as grateful).

Closes no door,
never keeps score, takes
a slap in the face and then
comes back for more.

Finds what you lost
takes what you tossed
turns it to treasure, then
won’t count the cost.

Grasps what you give
knows where you live
winks when you’re weak,
teaching you to forgive.

Far more than fair
when it knows how you scare,
grins reassuringly
till you can dare.

Whistles above
the uncertainty of
angry mirrors until you
can finally see love.

So here love stands
weaving your strands
into patterns of peace
you can hold in your hands.


Andrew Lazo is a teacher, writer, and sought-after speaker on C.S. Lewis and the Inklings. Read more from him at his website: http://andrewlazo.com


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