I did not take this photograph; I do not know where it was taken. It found me. I kept returning to it to think of its story. How many hymns were sung by the faithful in this country chapel? How many wedding vows repeated as families began? How does the color of the glass glow when lit from inside at twilight?
I am grateful for those stories, the message of endurance told by weathered wood and stained glass.
in shade under pine trees
stepping slowly through pine needles
careful in this dark corner
I laughed to find
one bright spot
Grandma called them Old Maids.
Grown by her back porch,
coming inside to bunch in a Mason jar
or dry for next year’s seeds.
She let me pick the ones I wanted.
I loved them because they were pretty.
In our back yard is a row of tiny ones,
smaller than Grandma’s Old Maids,
more color in our flowers than our leaves
in South Texas Autumn.
Nora picks this one for me.
She loves it because it is pretty
here Fall brings no leaf peeper
for leaves with scarlet and amber
but there is change in the way light brushes leaves
the slightest shift in angle, a beckoning gentleness
my heart is dappled with the touch of autumn light