The Maple

The maple flows in sunset light,
Its leaves are turning orange,
The maple tree, oh what a sight,
It gazes to the sinking orb,
That tired, has passed through the sky,
And now it sinks and casts out
Its most beautiful light, to meet my eye,
But maple tree, I see you first,
I see you perched upon our hill,
Your leaves once green and vibrant,
Your leaves are few, but vibrant still,
Bold colours plucked off one by one,
Balder, every night you’re there,
Every time you see the sun,
You sacrifice to chilling air,
Your pride, your joy, your vibrant leaves,
They flutter from you shamelessly,
And float upon a colder breeze,
Until you will be left, just wood,
And still upon our hill you’ll stand,
With jutting stick and crooked branch,
You blend along with all the land,
Oh maple tree, it must be done,
If you survive the flurries white,
And see the shine of spring again,
These precious buds of yours just might,
Bring back once more your maple fans,
Of emerald shades that match the hills,
But you must follow through God’s plans,
In fading shades of browns and reds,
You stand, forlorn, and all alone,
Just waiting as you lose the things
That make your life a vibrant tone,
Reflecting happy summer days,
I watch as you accept the change,
The season’s way must rearrange.