Writers' Group
RESURRECTION
A maple tree next door kept its leaves last fall.
Now, at February’s end, they still hang on -
Shriveled, but bravely burnt-orange against the white snow.
Perhaps a botanist could explain why,
Or maybe that tree just likes the way it looks in autumn.
It’s found the style that suits it and it’s sticking to it
Despite all its neighbors’ bare branchy winter silhouettes.
Maybe, like most of us, it doesn’t like change,
And having gone from green to orange,
It’s taken a stand and said, “That’s enough -
No more changes for me, thank you.”
One hopes though, that in the next few months,
Those leaves will finally drop for new green to appear.
Before new life, a death must sometimes come.
--Kay Carlsen
A maple tree next door kept its leaves last fall.
Now, at February’s end, they still hang on -
Shriveled, but bravely burnt-orange against the white snow.
Perhaps a botanist could explain why,
Or maybe that tree just likes the way it looks in autumn.
It’s found the style that suits it and it’s sticking to it
Despite all its neighbors’ bare branchy winter silhouettes.
Maybe, like most of us, it doesn’t like change,
And having gone from green to orange,
It’s taken a stand and said, “That’s enough -
No more changes for me, thank you.”
One hopes though, that in the next few months,
Those leaves will finally drop for new green to appear.
Before new life, a death must sometimes come.
--Kay Carlsen