t’s a colorful Fall here in the East so I thought this chilly October morning should have a little poetic tribute to the changing season.
©2018 Rolland G. Smith
I now know why we call them leaves;
Too soon they fall when frosted thieves
Lure their green to red and golds
In colors soft and dazzling bolds.
Leaves drop from age and sometimes breeze
To land on lawns by shrubs and trees.
They drift in circles to the ground
In crinkling, cracking, crunching sound.
O’ leaves of branch and bush, behold!
Your service lasts despite the cold,
As quilts of warmth for creatures low
Beneath the ground, before the snow.
Some leaves will sail to lawns serene
Where children’s smiles can then be seen
Waiting for the rake and pile
To leap upon and lie awhile.
But soon the crumpled stems and flake
Are raked in rows for match to make
A downey flame and spired smoke;
Incense of honor to the oak.
Then barren trees stand naked, strong,
To slice the wind of winters song.
They lean and bow from bending blow,
When snapping, cracking, to and fro.
I know there is a message here,
Where trees with leaves at end of year
Do molt their husks of leafy sheen
So other seasons can be seen.
Thus trees and man are oft’ alike,
In time all shed their aging haik.
What’s left from passage is pristine,
As spirit light and spirit green.