Becoming
When the leaves fall,
I feel their green call to me
unto death.
Whispering that what was fresh
is no more.
I hear their silence, see their veins
weave through their becoming -
from brittle leaves to tomorrow’s dust.
And as the tree, limb to limb
with the others,
stands tall like a soldier ready for battle,
the leaves fragment as they fall.
They never try to hold on
for they know their fate.
They land as one
with winter’s snowy lace calling
to the bitterness all around
to remind of what once was new
born to beauty on high.
Ignored by passerby,
they lay desolate beneath the underlay
of moments gone by,
every kindness and cruelty and breath.
December’s frozen face tries to smile
in remembrance
but can only shudder under the sullen sky,
mourning reflected in an icy mirror,
as it stings the earth (and I)
with sleeted tears
and the woeful winds commiserate.
Oh, how they call to the small within
me like innocent days
and love taken for granted,
but I, like the leaves, am silent.
Life is wondrous and beautiful
until the end.
As the season of white melts into gray,
the leaves, (and I),
softly fade away.
Written 5/7/22
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2022
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