One Glory of the Moon

—1 Corinthians 15:51 

Wild raspberry leaves had turned deep crimson and the stalks black.
For prayer I bowed in the field like one of the stalks, no less resigned.
Leaves of silver maple were shed and their underside had surrendered
to autumn mauve. In the eastern acre of the woods a sheet of yellow 

and orange and brown leaves suggested low fire. Though blue asters 
had shriveled, with two or three, because of the Indian summer, still
clinging madly to their color, a whole nation of robins were feeding
in the pasture, the field alive with birds. My prayer? What words 

fit for resignation to the death of such beauty? If God can raise 
children of Abraham from stone, let that late sinking moon, pale 
and full in the smoky blue, sinking to the low fire of turning leaves,
let that late moon rise again, splintered into a country of angels.