We Stop Beneath the Buckeye Tree
The seed pod dropped on the sidewalk and split. I see the ruddy shine through a slit in the spiked orb and wonder at its depth of color, the certain slant of light spent on its creation and its becoming. I hold the sharp husk gingerly between my fingers and thumb and wonder at the satisfaction in prying apart the halves, the silken rip at the pith. Notions of Autumn’s approach, the colored leaves, the drying bits of grass and flower are upon me. The death and dormancy that fit beneath the harvest ground conceal a greater thing: Latent energy bursting into fullness, our God blossoming into the son of man ripening into the fullness of his mystery. I am tempted to hold fast the shells and face the blank wall, keep myself hidden within the pointed case and find my way to fullness turned inward. Yet I strain against the covering, press into the exterior a plain and arching back. I drop against the ground and split to see a shining depth of light in which death and birth work to