Staring At Stain Glass Before The Funeral Poem by r james sterzinger

Only the purity of the falling
Snow, will mark your going.
Not the petals of roses. True
Roses are not in season.

The empty trees wave,
Folded arms in the cold,
The missing leaves, portray
Our unanswered prayers.

I ask my question to God, I
wonder why He takes one so young
So loved. So needed. One who is
A part of us all.

The winter light through St. Michael's
Halo, gives me my answer I need.
Seasons are seasons. Question, if you must:
Keep the Faith.