The Rustling Leaves

    
The Rustling Leaves
  
September moves towards its end, yet city trees are green.
And in the little front yards, flowers bloom as if in spring.
But squashes now are pendant, large, from trellises – and yes,
Some trees give hints of yellowing, like humans that have grayed.

For autumn’s winds are blowing now and nights are growing cold.
So leaves will change in color soon and turn to warmer hues.
I pass beneath a spreading tree and hear the rustling leaves.
They speak to me of summer’s end and whisper of the fall.

How many summers now are left, how many autumns still?
The winter winds will come with snow, and we will wait for spring.
The elder dies, the infant wails, the child and sapling grow.
How many springs to relish and how many winters more?

We city-dwellers go to work each day and then return.
And in our little flats we sit and stare at glowing screens.
But seasons come and seasons go as seasons always will.
And cities too will come and go, and those like you and me.

So when I hear the rustling leaves, I hear the voices past.
I hear our conversations and the ones I overheard.
September moves to meet its end, and so do you and I.
But seasons still will cycle ‘round and infants born will cry.

So let us smile at this, my friend, to whom I sit and write:
The day we shared had woe enough – but also gave delight.
And so, as night approaches, let us join our hands to pray –
That others after us will have their pleasures in their day.

2014 September 25th, Thu. 5:48 am.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York