Oak Leaves
The withered leaves of summer days
cling to the oak tenaciously;
their dry and brittle sighs are heard
when winter winds sift through the trees.
They will not die a gracious death
and flutter to the fields while gold;
when other leaves deep carpets make
impassioned oaks increase their hold.
They cling till Death's determined winds
in violent spasm fling them down;
but, even as they touch the ground,
new buds of green replace the brown.
How I admire their courage, staunch,
their joy of living in Death's face,
for even winter's blasting wind
a challenge meets in their embrace.
Although their death is imminent,
their grasp near wrested from the tree,
they strain to sip life's nectar all,
before they meet eternity.
I would be like them to the end;
while drinking in my final breaths,
I would sing of life's ecstatic joy
and pause with you when facing death.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment