God’s Quilt

He sweeps the sky clear
dropping white cotton balls
over an azure colored backdrop.

He caresses the leaves,
with his feather-bristled paint brush
tickling each one a little at a time
until they burst into gales
of blushing reds, burnt oranges,
and stoic maroons.

He whispers to them silently,

“It is time–young children
To shed your overcoats
Throw down your defenses
and sturdy yourself –
all your limbs askew,
all your trunks exposed,
all your footing solid,
for Father Winter is coming soon.”