Untitled

Written October 2005

Said the leaf to the tree, "Must I turn this year?
I like being green
I like it right here."

Said the tree to the leaf, "I'm afraid that you must.
After all you were made
To turn colors of rust."

And then the tree said, "But I do understand.
I dislike being stripped
Of my many leaf-hands.

"I dislike being bared to the forces of harm
To the ice that will weigh down
And crack my strong arms."

"Then why do you let go?" the leaf asked the tree.
"Why don't you hold on
To leaf-hands like me?"

"I must learn to relinquish my outer facade
To be moulded and renewed
And strengthened by God."

"Okay," said the leaf with an insecure sigh.
"I'll try to let go
Oh, surely I'll try."

And so the leaf turned a bright, beautiful gold,
And fell to the ground
As the harsh wind blew cold.

The leaf that surrendered the things it held dear
Then nourished the soil
For beauty the next year.