How handy are the leaves that fall from trees,
Maple, Elm, Dogwood, even needles of pine.
I enjoy these trees, yet can’t tell one from another,
Except to appreciate their colors and their shade
And be soothed as each leaf rustles in the breeze.
And I can’t help thinking their story is like mine.
Proud at their peak to driest piles that smother,
The humblest leaf enriches me with every blade.

Leaves, like seasons, grow differently with time.
In spring, they emerge to green the empty wood
And fill their boughs with bursting life and flower.
They offer cooling shade against the summer heat
And hide what must stay hidden in their prime.
But autumn leaves turn red or yellow as they should
And grow brittle even as they lose their power
Until, one by one, they fall, swept up to the street.

We, too, burst forth like buds awaiting bloom
And find fullness and achievement as we grow.
We love, are loved, pour into our work and play,
And over decades add our value to all around.
But just as seasons flow from light to gloom,
Our senses dim, our bones grow brittle as we age,
And we will face alone the fading of our day
Until, like leaves, we end up lying in the ground.