The leaves first healthy and green Reaching up to eternity Then turning red, then gold and rust And falling, translucent in their glory Only their veins showing, organic lace; The tree's honest history. Only their slightly different shape Remains a mystery, Remembered by those who might've seen As if in a fog, mistily With just the few days of it's life Lived blissfully.
These are the children, the ephemera Of our trees Giving, sharing, growing, expanding Repeating generously To populate our world with breath Suffering death constantly Being reborn silently to us; Sentinels of majesty.
These are benefactors of life For all of you and me Casting themselves up from dirt To our reality Whether we believe it or know it. They give voicelessly, And that is what it means to be a tree If you are leaves set free.