THE BALLAD OF THE LEAVES
 

We come in varied shapes and sizes,
We're triangular and round,
We're big and small; we're rough and smooth,
We're wide and narrow, short and long.
 
We're not alike; yet we are the same,
 We're nearly always green,
We hang upon the boughs and limbs,
Of every tree that's seen.
 
The bird's eye view we have is great,
We see clearly all around,
We're high enough and low enough,
To enjoy both sky and ground.
 

We're well nourished by the trees
Our thirsts are quenched by falling rains,
We bathe each day in morning dews,
And we are splendidly sustained.
 
Hale and hearty, where we hang,
Bouncing, buoyant, weightless, light,
Dipping, sweeping, swaying, waving,
Nodding, bowing, day and night.
 
Through each Spring and Summer,
With glee we tease our fellow leaves,
And greet the joyful, singing birds,
That rest and nest in us with ease.
 

Life is good; we're a happy lot,
We love the warmth of the Summer's sun,
But often we don't stop and think,
The best for us is yet to come.
 
The chill of cool October nights,
Gives us cause to shake and shiver,
But warmed again by sunny days,
We dance with delight and quiver.
 
Exciting changes taking place,
Over night it seems we've lost our green,
We're not the same when we awake,
It's like a fantasy or dream.
 

We look around at one another,
Each leaf, so different now,
Hints of yellow, tints of orange,
Awesome colors on each bough.
 
Robust reds and mottled purples,
Rich and lovely harvest golds,
Hues of rust and tones of copper,
Wondrous, brilliant casts and glows.
 
Then the Winter winds move in,
They blow on us with gusty mirth,
Tumbling, bumbling, dry and brittle,
We come flying to the earth.
 

The trees stripped bare, now naked stand,
Their greenery all gone,
And we are buried 'neath their limbs,
Within the frigid ground.
 
But do not grieve because we leave,
The good Lord's planned our path,
For through their roots, we'll feed the trees,
And in the Spring, they'll bring us back.
 
Then we will dance and prance once more
To the lively tempo of the wind,
And we'll sing the ballad of the leaves,
As if it were a hymn.
 

Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright October 2005