Who has strolled in a garden
With the magic that it weaves?
Who has ever wondered
At the myriad of leaves?
–
They appear in so many stages,
Some shining and bright when unfurled,
Some barely beyond an opening bud,
Some slowly fading and curled.
–
They come in a vast variety of shapes,
Some broad, some tapered, some scaled,
Some oblong, some forked, some bristled, some fanned,
Some wavy, some barbed, and some tailed.
–
There are crescents and ovals and diamonds and spears,
Serrated, truncated, and starred;
Pleated and pointed, spiny and narrow,
Crinkly, radial and barbed.
–
They are old; they are new, either many or few
Filling canopies overhead.
Sometimes no match for the driving winds,
Holding on by just a thread.
–
One can lose oneself in leaves,
With their kaleidoscope of shades;
Breathing gently as they dance and sway
In so many hidden cascades.
–
There comes a fancy notion that many would dismiss.
A sadness felt by very few,
By those who would dwell on things they miss.
A thought that a poet might pursue.
–
How rare to look at a single leaf;
It’s just part of a blanket of green.
It may pass through its time, so grand in its prime,
But never even seen!