Incandescent, the bright autumn leaf clings to the branch, holding on to glory, then floats to the ground in its fine array—down to winter's snows and spring's muck and mold. Does it rant and rave into that good night? Or does it, Lord, make this last burst of glory in song of praise for its fate, knowing its part in life is to follow thy will on through mud's spring from leaf to humus, to be drawn up in some other summer's flowers? So may we, O God, choose your fate, knowing tomorrow, defeated or lost, holds yet greater summer.