It might be an ad, but I still like it.

Song for Autumn

by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

Blessed are the Landmines
by Brave Saint Saturn

Blessed are the land-mines
Stretched across the desert floor
God, bless the hands that formed them
Filled their shrapnel hearts with war
May You bless the companies
The goose that laid the golden egg
May they make a million more
Blowing off a million legs
Blessed are the black-tongued ravens
Substituting fear for reason
To hate war is to hate us
If you love peace, then you must love treason
Beat your plowshares into swords
Beat your pulpits, turn your tables
Blessed are the hand-grenades
Bless the church who rattles sabers

This house, is burning
This poison still is worming
This temple, will cave in
There’s nothing here worth saving

Nail the gold up to the altar
Like Ahab taunts his crew to war
Blessed are the shareholders
Lack of faith is for the poor
Hold your wallets to the sky
A temple built to sooth yourself
Blessed is the church who tries
To help you build blessed wealth