Observe the browning leaves:
do they worry
as they die, and fall
and fall to graying earth?
Do they fight and struggle
and scratch against
the muscled fingers of gravity?

No.
They willingly go to decay,
to shrink,
to crunch under foot and
Not return.

They green in strong winds
and spackled springtime light alike.
Then, knowing it would be so
all along,
They die.

Give their pigment up,
fearless,
joyful, willing us,
Hope.