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
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