Colors Falling and Those That Remain

                                                               There is no pooling these colors for long.
                                                               The flakes my daughters rake up and jump into
                                                               blaze with their laughter in the dusky chants of light;
                                                               trees letting go fists of fire the seasons tended;
                                                               speaking the fleeting and all is fleeting,
                                                               slipping through the fingers of air.

                                                               But what remains is the spectrum of God
                                                               in the palms of our hands,
                                                               our clasping hearts:
                                                               if we would only see Him in these parching
                                                               transitions to dust
                                                               and what remains held
                                                               in His mind for eternity.