The Host


Sprung alongside leaves of rust

these feet descend on paths we trust,

these limpid scenes of road-cut dreams

where filigreed beauty fills our seams.

* * *

Disguised as nighttime’s distant friend

she makes her appearance, broad breast extends

o’er field and lake and crispling brook

she hunkers down for one last look.

* * *

Where designs of fall now yield to one

more simple, benign and bids her gone.

Now there must a reck’ning be

when all things living, shall soon death see.

* * *

But when through forest, hill and glen

the wand’rer, stout, comes round again

to find his way from found to lost;

find he will, by faith, his host.

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