Our Own Stained Glass

Fall often 

Stains our world brown, 

Leaves the color 

Of an old ruddy gold, 

Their tips dry, 

Crinkling with the cold 

That sweeps through our souls; 

A veil of bleary eyes 

Dulled from a bright 

Summer soil 

To a tired 

Winter muck; 

Tree branches whisper 

Melancholy songs 

Through bare bark 

Stripped of their flimsy green hope 

Soaked with the sun; 

The gowns of ruddy gold, 

Though, 

Can be polished, 

Scrubbed by wishes calloused 

With desperation, 

Can be hemmed 

With views once used 

To ward away anything 

We didn’t want to deal with, 

Patchworking each marvelous 

Shade of brown 

Into what we want to see 

In autumn: 

Our own 

Stained glass.