LEAVES LEAVE

 

I heard a little rustling,

A noisy sort of bustling,

On a cold November morning,

Outside my window light.

 

Then I looked into the street;

The leaves were on their feet,

Marching, marching onward; no retreat

The wind had called the fight.

 

They’d been called on that day,

With others brown and gray,

And the mother tree that nourished them

Now couldn’t bid them nay,

As they scurried and hurried with their might.  

– eab, Nov. ‘70