I hold in my hand a faded old leaf,
dry and crisp,
and I remember spring
when it was a tender lime green bud
and grass was greening and soft;
when flowers began to bloom
and birds sang again;
when the air was fresh and warm
and breezes were light and fragrant.

I think of that tiny bud
growing into a bright mature leaf;
of spring turning to summer,
of birds nests filled with eggs,
then babies chirping.
I think of the leaf maturing in summer’s heat
and soft grass growing tough and resistant.

Now the leaves have turned to autumn colors
and soon the trees will be bare,
resting in winter’s arms,
waiting for the tiny green buds of spring.

Gloria Ziemienski

October 17, 2007