I was the maple
green, strong, making food from light,
Then came the changes.

Longer nights chilled me,
what cold did change, color and more,
Called forth a new me.

Who am I now, tree?
Or a lone leaf? One of many,
Many leaves falling.

Yes, falling alone,
Under this tree gathering,
Until the wind comes.

Copyright 2013 Brenda Davis Harsham