These were the leaves, the leaves, the leaves.
These were the trees, the trees, the trees.
These were the boys who fell in the leaves, that fell from the trees, that stood in my yard.
These, these, these.
These are the the things I love.
These are the blooms, the blooms, the blooms.
These are the colors, the orange, the pink.
These are the colors that live in my yard, that smile at the trees, that let go their leaves, that pile in my yard.
These, these, these.
These are the things I love.
These are some carrots, some carrots, some carrots.
They are strange shapes, strange shapes, strange shapes.
They remind of life, and creatures, and privates,
But they are just carrots, root vegetables and sweet.
These are the carrots that came from the Schultz's, who work on their farm, to gather the grain, to make the fresh bread, I eat as my toast.
They are some friends that I love, I love, They are some friends that I love.
These are the days, the days, the days.
These are the moments, the thoughts, the tears,
When I ponder anew, the purpose of life, the nature of God, the role of a wife.
The leaves blew away in wind storm so fierce, the petals are frostbit and some even worse, the frost slows the harvest and carrots are gone, but me and my leaf boys, we still ramble on. We sit at our desks, tell stories and play, we see things in Legos, in dancing, and clay. The autumn has fallen, the branches are bare, the trucks rumble down the highway with care. But still I am grieving good friends gone too soon, I hope I can surrender --to give my God room, but still I don't like it, I think it's not right, two friends, 5 kids, and cancerous blight.
But I'm grateful for sunshine, I'm grateful for tears, they help me be honest and not ruled by fears, but soon I want peace, and energy and laughs, too much of great sighing can lead to big wafts of heaviness here in our cluttery small home, and some laughter could raise the roof like a dome.
I long for more time, yet I'm sure I would fill it; I long for no criticism -- just trust I will mill it, like the wheat in the grinder, those stinging thoughts may, just gather together to give us our day...ly bread, bread, the butter on bread, smears thicker and sweeter the longer I spread.
I think I need help, I think I am fine, I think I can see through the gaze that is mine. I'm full to the noggin with thoughts and "to do's", but when the day's done, I just want to muse. To sort out my feelings, my thoughts and my urges, to reckon with children and more housing purges. My husband is gone, eight hours a day, my boys are not sorry, they just want to play. But I am left here, responsibilities in tow, to distinguish and act on which ones can not go.
These are the snapshots in my scrapbook of Mind that I will remember when vision can't find, a healthy perspective, to hang up my hat, to look for the stars, when I'm feeling fat; and talk to my God, whether He hears me or not, and tell Him the truth, and to listen a lot. Because sometimes I think, in moments like these, I can see the forest --because of these trees. These trees, these trees.
These are the things that I am.