
When northern winds, in early fall,
begin their southern flow.
Then tiny kings, like autumn leaves,
take flight before the snow.
A mirid of golden wings,
glide gently, to and fro.
And as I watch, I wonder why,
from wince, to where they go.
The gentle stir of stained glass wings,
on still and warm fall days.
Like little churches floating passed,
how do they know the way?
With silent whispers from their wings,
their secrets are disclosed.
We know not when it's time to leave,
God told us when to go.
They pause for rest, here and there,
all along the way.
Wings closed tight, like folded hands,
thrust upward as they pray.
Refreshments served, cool and sweet,
from summers fading rose.
By gentle breezes carried on,
God shows them where to go.
With cold north winds, winter comes,
the fragile wings are gone.
Replaced by frosty pains of glass,
on rivers, streams and ponds.
In the cold, comes tinkling sounds,
from snow flake chandeliers.
Where jeweled wings were floating passed,
now snow flakes fill the air.