Leaves of gold (their former green), the richest color briefly seen.
A canopy of purest light.
Falls glittering down (into the night) as winds of change draw ever near.
The trees (they seem to have no fear)
they know it's time (they must transform)
and with that, something new is born.
And so its been (since the dawn of time) all things must learn to bend with time.
- poetry by Rebekah