Falling Leaves

Falling Leaves

©2013 Rolland G. Smith

I now know why we call them leaves;

Too soon they pass when frosted thieves

Lure their greens to reds and golds

In colors soft and dazzling bolds.

Leaves drop from age and seasons’s breeze

To land on lawns by shrubs and trees.

They drift in circles to the ground

Arriving with a crinkling sound.

O' leaves of bush and trees, behold!

Your service lasts despite the cold,

You quilt a warmth for creatures low

Beneath the ground, before the snow.

Some leaves will float to lawns serene

Where children's smiles can then be seen

Waiting for the rake and pile

To leap upon or lie awhile.

But soon the crispy leaves and flake

Are raked in rows for match to make

A smoldered flame and spire smoke-

Incense of honor to the oak.

The barren trees stand naked, strong,

To slice the winds of winter’s throng.

They lean and bend from fridged blow,

And snap and crack both to and fro.

I know there is a message here,

When trees with leaves at end of year

Do molt their husks of color’s sheen

For winter’s season to be seen.

The trees and man must be alike,

In time we shed an aging haik.

What's left for each, both pure, pristine

Is spirit life that can’t be seen.