The Yellow Wood

There lies a yellow wood beside a still cobalt lake,
It’s leaves, now dying, fall, leaving ripples in its wake.
The ground is covered in a carpet, a deep golden brown,
The wind blows gently, upsetting the earth’s autumn gown.

I found myself amidst this grove, this autumnal day,
Walking between the cedar columns, in silence they had much to say.
For soon these trees would be bare, the ground thick with snow,
Awaiting the longer days for new seeds to sow.

Their story was sad at first, for soon they were to die,
Their leaves all gone, nothing left but winter’s bitter sigh.
But in their death, beauty lay bright and strong,
As one leaf floats down, singing its dying song.

As I listened to their tale, I felt as though I should cry,
But I realized that there is no spring, if these trees did not die.
For truly in the beauty of death, life springs ever new,
The leaf has fallen, but our joy will come with the morning dew.