Just a weed,
But even a weed can tell a story.
Dried leaves and stalk
Stand alone
As autumn consumes them.
And yet
Tufts of white spring from branches,
Seeds
Ready to fall like snow
When cast on the wind.
Our fallen ones
Left seeds behind;
Our fallen ones
Left seeds,
And already
Life is springing from those seeds.
But in truth,
Those we have lost
Are seeds themselves,
Planted in death,
Ready to put on immortality,
To be clothed in incorruption,
Awaiting the resurrection
That is sure as the spring.
