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THE LEAVES OF HOPE
The budded leaves of spring have come of age
they've leafed through summer on to autumns page
and in the biting chill of early dawn
their time speeds up its pace of getting on
and now they turn through nature's silent rage.

When they first came to light, their greenery
made promises of things to surely be;
of dreams once layed into our days of youth
by strokes of fate and bitterness of truth,
but born again from springtimes majesty.

Through summer storms at midnight in the breeze,
before the rains, we heard them in the trees,
with all their heart, oh what a song they'd sing
the very breath of God accompaning
to make the heat of summer more at ease.

But now their rustling, stiff, and brittle sound
gives warning of their falling to the ground,
as reds and golds and yellows cling on to
the only threads of life they ever knew
and then it ends, as if it's never found.

© ron wilson aka vee bdos the doylestown poet

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