Autumn’s chill caressed the Wood,
And coaxed her into Sleep.
Leaves then fluttered from the Boughs
Into a towering heap.
Man admires the Wild-flower,
Gem-like on the ground;
But what of the slumbering Tree
That cannot make a sound?
Are not all things in this Wood
Reflecting how, in Life,
Living things can’t set their roots
Without enduring strife?
Can’t Life be admired
Without silken cloaks of red?
Don’t trees possess beauty
In their bones once Leaves are shed?