Leaves of the World

If I were Frost, meandering about,
I would observe the change from warm to cold
As leaves from trees drift down from whence they’d sprout,
A-carpeting the ground with brown and gold.
With every change in path, the wind, it blows
Away the fragile souls of ripen age
While leaving trees, their branches all exposed,
Like fingers of a wizened, ancient sage.
But once the chill departs and warmth sets in
From buds, the foliage will grow anew
And nature shall restart; life will begin
And change the world from brown to young green hue.
Though men, like leaves, may die as time goes by,
They live again through every baby’s cry.