Rise
Green to orange, green to red,
All the sticky little leaves have turned up dead.
Strength sapped and brittle brought,
Life has now begun to rot.
*
Down to the ground, down they fall,
Turning of life apporaching each and all.
From what height they descend,
Never to grow again.
*
Yet, is this truly the end?
End of what? A leaf?
A leaf if you like, or the death of a friend.
*
Yes, the ground is a grave.
A grave is the end? Of both leaf and friend?
Leaf and friend end in the grave, as much as they begin in the nave.
*
Lest they rise.
Rise? They decompose, not rise.
Nay, life may just rise even if escaping our eyes.
*
How can it be, without ever been seen?
Seen it might, or to be seen it will…
You speak of magic, a zombie, or a fein.
*
No. I hope for a Sun rise to crest death’s hill.