Oh blowing, rustling trees
Beneath the starry skies,
Beaming under the moonlight,
How shall I address your beauty today?
Shall I speak of your golden leaves,
Or the roots beneath the sole of my feet.
Or shall I speak of your branches
That wave at me when I’m alone.
I shall epistolize of your courage
That withheld during storms, rain and snow.
Today, however,
Your broken, fallen leaves
Dwindle, wilt, and dry.
Skeletons and flakes garner in sheaves
Crackling as I slowly pass by.
Following the leaves is a pungent scent,
Where it is they fall and die.
Surely nature requires no consent,
As to whom it [temporarily] says goodbye.
– Hafsah Syed
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