Lord, like you, I am sweeping leaves,
as the trees eschew their fingers,
and turn their heads on part of themselves.
I looked and saw too many leaves
from too many long winters
heaped up on top of each other,
becoming the worm-infested mulch
of a wayward heart.
But, Lord, you also created worms.
They loosen what would otherwise
pack itself down into a deadening tightness,
choking out what life is yet to come.
You seem to prefer it this way, Lord.
New stuff grows from old,
good from bad,
fresh from foul.
So be it.