Leaves

I felt the constant, rustling breeze,
And saw the bending of the trees.
The leaves were sort of letting go,
Tossed by the fierceness of the blow.

So soon...they seemed to meet their fate,
To flutter down from their estate.
And be like men whose moments gave,
Who lived and died and took the grave.

Who by their merits and their worth,
Have added to the wealth of earth.
By a faith supreme and a joy in when,
At a glorious time they could live again.

Flames flashing on the horizon,
And stretching to the valley.
A closer view just standing there,
Is the red tree in the ally.

Inter-mixed with summer's growth,
Like hate...in love's attire.
Crimson, brown, and coppered gold,
Are seen in autumn's fire.

E.P. 1908 - 1989