Every year I watch as the withered trees
Sprout new leaves in Spring,
And see those too turn to crimson and amber
To fall to the earth and begin again.
It reminds me of my own being,
How within me a clock is ticking,
Reminding me that each passing season
Is one less to live.
But, though I may decay into nothing someday,
I'd give it all to clean this mess we've made,
To push us toward a better way:
To give and not to take,
To love and to create.

By: Forrest Jorgensen ©