The Brittle Little Leaves
When Fall has passed its color peak,
The painted leaves take flight,
Blown here by warm winds from the south;
Blown there by north wind’s bite.
They fill the air like butterflies;
They float, freed from the tree.
And as they race, borne by the wind,
They’re blind to frailty.
One farther than the others sails;
One higher than the rest.
One grabs a ride on passing car;
One boasts as palace guest.
But though we marvel at their hues,
Most end in gutters, streets,
Like man who wastes his life in drink
And final end there meets.
Their days, when fetter free in Fall,
Are few, though each achieves
A splash of fame till end does claim
Those brittle little leaves.
Awed mankind watches Fall fly by
As it’s blown too by winds –
The mores of the masses’ moods,
The fads and passing trends.
Men fly in hurried little bursts;
They’re blown by moment’s whim;
They marvel as their colors flash –
It’s all carpe diem.
Each, in his fall, casts off constraints
And for the moment lives,
Not seeing that for fancy flights
It is his all he gives.
But foliage that’s evergreen,
Though staid and fixed, receives
Long life to spend, not bitter end
Of brittle little leaves.
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photo by Yannick Bisson at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mERacEq/Fallen+Leaves+1
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.
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