We are gathered
in the fall.
This season of our life
The apples of his eye
It does not matter how,
as skin is not the concern
Only the inside matters
The good he has locked within us.
Knocked from the safety of our branch
Falling to the ground
Bruised and alone
in old burlap bags
Pressing down under our own weight
from the orchard
to the mill.
Breaking us wide open
Shattered us into mash
Shoveled into layers
upon layers
For the final press
Until every last broken fruit
Lay dying.
Pressed down slowly
as all that is good is released
the threaded press turning
twisting as we weep
Gathering tears
Bottling tears
Sharing tears.
Each gives
and gives
the we have no more to give
Satisfied, the press
discards the crushed, withered, rotting
becoming compost for the next generation.

It is not meant for enjoyment,
just joy.


4 Responses

  1. Ric, that was a wonderful word portrait. Thanks for writing about our lives.

  2. I think I know this pain.

    He is our strength,
    the Rock on which we can stand.
    He restores our souls,
    And redeems all the waste places.

    Praying still…love you, Ric.

  3. this was amazing! 😉

  4. Thank you Ron and Brandy.

    Thanks for the prayers Michelle.

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