Utter beauty calling, falling
in the windswept majesty
of dying autumn leaves.
And yet the trees will never
shed a tear, nor feel an emptiness
that echoes out from somewhere
deep inside. Instead they simply
stand in an erection of a suppleness
that holds the truth of graceful
bows and bends within its
every particle of being.
Ultimately, seasons change
themselves into another shape
and form. Trees have never
come to mourn the loss of any
leaf. They cry not of the heat
within the growing summer swells;
nor ever do they feel the chill of
icy blasts of cold and ice.
Their symmetry is awe inspiring.
And yet I wonder, if they never
come to weep, how is they've
become the love they give...?
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .