When the Homily is about Immunology

All Trees Go to Heaven

In the windy dark, I listen to the weeping trees.
Deep mournful groans, that echo through the woods.
Some have no more leaves, like tears to shed
others drench the world with their burdens.
Many succumb to the wintery onslaught,
a loud sigh, and then explode upon the ground.

With light and marvel I meander about their troublesome deathbeds,
thankfull they did not bid for my alliance with their fate.
When the noisy mourning ends, I shall entomb them in my woodshed,
where they shall await the resurrection in the season to come.