Woodstock ~ Vermont, by Chandler Anderson
Remembering All Saints and All Souls
The cloak of warmth has passed, those summer days
that yield to dying leaves and Hallows Eve.
The fire-petal canopies that draped
from maple limbs concede to crisp at night,
then wake to fences pumpkin-donned, the bite
of frost, the coming ghosts, all black-shroud creped.
They creep at dusk, the souls that take their leave
from graveyard homes, all rise in gruesome haze–
a fog of spirits–eerie echoes chime.
Then twilight in the early hours calms,
the dawn is quiet, and our loved-ones-passed,
no longer ghouls as sun mounts in the sky,
become for us all saints, then one day by,
all souls that we remember, blest at last.
We raise up hymns and prayers in sacred psalms,
imagine our beloved free–sublime.
The golden autumn leaves that pave the ground
are gilded beams for loved ones, heaven-bound.