If you get simple beauty and naught else,
You get about the best thing God invents.
Must be browning.
Cold settles into fibers
And olive-brown blooms,
Likewise the heart slows,
Older passions fail to flow.
Snow settles on fading green,
Leaves sagging with resignation.
Even the pungent sage withers.
Yet, the possibility of vitality
Withdraws into the roots,
Lingers to bloom again.
But not love – love is
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
— Robert Browning, Sage and Poet
Note: This poem is a concrete poem, about leaves, in the shape of a leaf.