On a still autumn morn the trees are ablaze
With shades of crimson and gold so volitile
Their great merry arms holding out their treasures
As the rising sun reflects off beads of dew

As the days remain still the leaves lose their hue
They slowly, painfully turn brown and dry
Falling to the ground silently, on their own
How quickly and softly their splendor is forgotten

Sometimes, the days do not remain so still
At daybreak, the forest is vibrant with color
By noon, a northerly gust of wind has rolled in
At dusk, the branches are bare, mourning their scarlet dreams

Perhaps it is safer to be an evergreen
And not have golden trophies to boast upon
Day in and day out, the same demure shade of green
Always enduring, never changing, never bright

Perhaps it is safer to be an evergreen
Foreign to the exquisite pain of decidious
To survive merciless storms with your needles intact
To be strong enough to hold up January snow.