Urban Pagan Prayer for Autumn

Cut off from the harvesting of yellow wheat,
I, who live far from the farms,
turn instead to the gold of the trees, to the red, to the orange,
that feed my soul with beauty as surely as the grain feeds my body.
A Pagan, worshiper of the particular, at home in the land I find myself in,
praises, not the far-found fields, but the trees on my street.