Leaves

The leaves drift by my window,
red and bronze,
like party-colored snow,
and, though undone,
the gold replacing green
would make it seem
that death is not unpleasant
a way to go.

All the same,
when winter's winds blow,
oaks do not hurry.
Their leaves hang on and on
through weary winter,
turning brown.
Even now snow won't
outwait them.

Oaks wait for Spring,
then let the old leaves go,
and so I, too,
shall hold, as if by hand,
recollections no longer green,
let rust and gold
confirm who I once was
and, yes, still am.