A kind of aching sadness reaches me
while watching as our sugar maple tree,
her crimson leaves like bitter, falling tears,
grows bare-limbed, stark—as in her former years.
In the autumn of my life, may I stay bright
until I turn to gray and fade from sight.
For I discern what falling leaves can’t know:
When finally I fall I will not go
to merely dust and ashes. I will rise
to Him who made the trees, the earth and skies.
For He who suffers not a sparrow’s fall,
remembers me and hears me when I call.
I’ll rise to new life trees have never seen,
and never fade again–forever green.