Trees weep, a fall of leaves
swirled by wind to lost heaps
of silence, of dry beauty.
Scattering unswept, vulnerable
to being trodden, trampled
under indifferent heels.
Bend, humble as a branch.
Lift to the light with tender hand
what weather and time have torn.
The scars leaves bear are cuts
that frame the sky with HOPE.
This holding is for the moment.
Shimmering silver turns to bronze;
leaves shift colour and currency.
Let it go. You too have changed.
The air you breathe is imprinted
with invisible shapes of hope;
love is a gift with holes.
