A leaf sprouts from nothing,
And grows despite the slim chances
The insects, the wind, the rain-
Yet with life still yet it dances.
The leaf shines bright,
A young, healthy green.
It flourish in the sunlight,
Growing older, life has it seen.
And then a chill befalls-
The taunting whisper of the end.
Yet in distinct defiance of fear,
Beautiful displays does the leaf lend.
Magnificent colors-
bright, hardy and true,
Illuminated the heavens-
Hope for the next anew.
But as the pumpkin king does pass,
And shrewd Jack Frost approaches fast,
It is time to bid dear leaves...
Goodbye.
And far far far
Do they fall fall fall.
Covering the forest floors,
A padded carpet all ignore.
They are brown and dry,
Crunchy and dead.
And we pay little more attention,
Than to a tombstone head.
And great Santa Clause,
Bids the ground be covered with snow,
And away do all remains,
Of the past generations go.
But still, I know.
That after the cold comes spring.
And again, oh again.
Shall the next leaves ring.
Are these leaves, then, the same?
Have they returned or been replaced?
Shuffled throughout another place,
Or so dead not even memories encase?
I wonder, quite then,
Could it be the same?
For all of us people,
When do we end this fleeting, tiring game?
YOU ARE READING
The Searching
PoetryYou've searched and searched, A great good, ole long time. For something tangible, something real- Something only you may find. Perhaps I can help you- Give you places to look.. Admits my words which fall like heaven, Coated in hell, this is my boo...
