We take the winding roads on our Saturdays together, my daughter and I.
Stopping to notice leaf change.
Greens reaching up, folding inward, holding on, procrastinating the brittle change.
Golds, surrendered to season. Changing with changes.
Settled in scattered places under shelter of black, mangled ugly limbs strained from summer harvest.
Surprised by the gift of surrendering our seasons.
Loving what has come, moving towards what we know is soon.
My daughter, a wife soon.
New seasons under God’s heaven
There is a season.