Some old leaves still cling,
come December rhymes and songs to sing,
despite months of beat
by bright hot sun,
then stormy rain and whipping wind.

But trees must somehow
loose them, lose them,
in the end,
to let them
let them let go
along with what till now they’ve been,

and make space new
to rest
and to grow through there,
and further, too,
into all they truly are,

by light of day,
and ‘neath sky dark
poked through by moon
and dimpled with
a dazzling multitude of stars.

This entry was posted in Autumn, Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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