Golden Leaves

I've always loved Aspen's leaves of gold Even though winter's what they foretold. And maples' gold among the crisp red, once fallen make the lovliest bed. The green was nice and furnished us shade. Beneath it, young lovers' vows were made. It matched the green-swept, rolling hills. holding its own, without golden frills. Poets say golden leaves never last. Trees try to capture, but gold flees fast. We catch its glint for a moment or two, before fairies steal with morning's dew. There's something special about the gold. Perhaps elusiveness is its control. Its story told with a painter's brush, poet's thoughts adding finishing touch.