Why do the leaves bother being beautiful?
And in death still seem so live and fruitful?
When all else now fades and all wills to wilt,
and mirrors the life and loss hearts have felt.
What are we but immaterial sense?
The consciousness of empirical dance.
Like snowflakes who dance their own winter beat –
What else are we but their tango complete?
These leaves that give in are not giving up.
For now they must die, but soon they’ll wake up.
Their wind-crinkling sounds are songs of their sleep.
For even in death rebirth is the reap.
Like trees that seem dead, our lives are not done.
The changing of leaves is a cycle begun.