Leaves–brown and gold

Rising upwards

From the tree outside the lead-paned church window

Gently borne by an autumn breeze

Soaring away

Small, fluttering shapes

Sparkling in the sun

Enjoying their freedom to fly.

Dead leaves

Leaving the safe tether of their branches

The souls of the tree

Starting their winter journey

By dancing joyfully in the breeze.

I watch

And I think of the souls

Thousands of souls

So recently torn from what anchored them

To their earthly homes

Carried skywards in great clouds

Of dust and smoke and debris

Traveling somewhere

To start their own winter journey.

Will they, like the dying leaves

Clad in fresh hues of green

Return some day

Part of their own cycle of winter and spring

Of death and life

Renewed and refreshed

From whatever journey they took

To face a new sun, a new life?

I watch the departing leaves

Through the lead-paned church window

As the sound of our hymn

Speeds them on their way

Knowing they will return in the Spring

And I raise my voice in song

For all the departed dead.