Upon taking out the compost.

The

tawny pink clouds the greeny arms
that sway and wave 'tween tiny farms
of
light.

I stand quiet, bucket in hands.
What is this weight for what tasks' ends
are
of?

Whispers that only he can say.
Said through leaf, wind, and close of day.
Yet
God

thunders more by page than his clouds.
This world's allure a corpse enshrouds.
It
will

only burn (that which eyes deem fair.)
Yet brighter still the singing heirs
will
shine.

isaiah 60:1-3; reveleation 21:22-27