Wonder what the trees think as their leaves descend to the ground,
Surrounded by the redolent scent of decay.
They probably don’t mind because it’s understood
Spring will come, and right now it’s an unshackling of
what weighs them down.
The trees can rest, pure and unfettered.
Stepping between the nodding trees,
I think about the words of great philosophers,
How Autumn and winter represent our own decline. Death is certainty.
The seasons are not limited to God’s plantings. We are them, and they, us.
A momentary inspection of a few falling leaves and I consider
Where I am in the mix. We tend to get caught up in all that,
Watching our leaves drop, crinkled and earth-worn.
Yet, these trees don’t fret over such things. They know,
Naked and unafraid, after sleep—