Sunday morning, sitting in my pew,
the trees where I watched
the waltz of the leaves in August
were now bare under gray skies.
How fitting for All Souls Day,
a day we oddly celebrate
the voids in our lives,
those dears we cannot replace.
I thought of great souls and ordinary,
the people who fixed our lunches,
and others whose burden
was to alter the times we inhabit;
all now become our honored dead,
the people who made us possible,
those who left us this place
that we can call home.
As we sang the last hymn
the clouds began to scatter,
the sky found its opening,
let the light fall in shafts,
and the world moved on.
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