CRIMSON LEAVES

 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.