Leaves

Hanging tresses, Colored dresses, Dancing to and fro as one Tossing, turning, Ever yearning For a swath of midday sun Singing, sighing, Sometimes crying; From their lofty limbs, they call Rustling, blowing, Never knowing When they are at last to fall Green or dying, Still or flying, All must beckon to the breeze Softly swaying, Always playing Simple music of the leaves.