The leaves are dying
Drifting down like falling snow
To see the veins which grow thin and pale
To hear their weathered limbs of grey cold
And when his bark and bite is no longer feared
And when her comfortable canvas is stripped away
No branch to catch a falling hand
No root to stretch nor wrap and rest
Too many names already carved
With no new branches left to trim
The colors once which changed with age
Now stay the same till clearer days
Perhaps the spring will no more grow
Perhaps this ends a present-day
But the leaves are dying ever still
And what's more concerning is
How they know, it is their way