Poem by Wayne Hepburn

Leave-ings

In a final flash of glory,
Signifying growing old,
They turn to orange, red, or yellow;
Some even to a lustrous gold.

Many wrinkle, dry, and shrinkle,
Before becoming sickly brown.
Then like a host of tiny corpses,
Lose their grips; come floating down.

The tree who birthed them falls asleep.
Naked now, she hunkers down,
To brave the ice and snows she knows,
Will be here soon, too soon,
And stay too long, too long.

Below the blanket o'er her feet,
Her leaves begin to decompose,
Into the elemental substance;
Seep into the hungry soil,
Embrace her roots to wait for Spring.

There wait to be absorbed once more,
And lifted high to branching tips,
Burst forth anew in brilliant green;
Born again in a new season,
Never knowing that the reason,
Is the love from Him Unseen.

Š1997 by Wayne Hepburn - All Rights Reserved