FALLING LEAVES LIKE LOVERS
The leaves, the leaves are gone except the oak,
Which cling to trees and rattle needlessly.
The others flame and fall for all to see.
They streak and sizzle, leaving only smoke.
But oak leaves hang as by some unseen yoke,
All browned and curled awaiting sympathy,
Or sap to course and lend vitality —
The leaves cannot perceive the sorry joke.
For spring will end the lie and they will drop,
To drift and rot and turn in time to dust.
As sure as buds will burst to make a crop
Of new, the old will flutter down — they must.
The falling leaves like lovers never stop.
It’s hardly gentle, but ’tis just, ’tis just.
NOTES: Robert Frost says a poem starts with a mood. Definitely true in this case.
This poem was written many years ago back in the Midwest, where it was easy to find oak trees. I’m told they exist out here in the Pacific Northwest, but you can’t prove it by me. I’ve been forced to resort to a stock photo, courtesy of Upsplash.