Scattered Dead Leaves

Scattered dead leaves, this tree in decay
Offers false fruit, a gift without promise.
Emptiness, rot, the currency this day,
A cup running over with barrenness.

Skeletal arms reach up toward their Maker
In lengthening shadow and shortness of days.
Winter, Death, the cruel gift-taker,
Leaving in place inadequate praise.

Who can revive these cold, lifeless limbs?
Barren they lie, of raiment are shorn.
And give them new breath to whisper new hymns,
Spring to new life, in beauty adorned.

Spring's morning Sun, the Heavenly Rain,
A resident Wind all bring life to this ground.
From this tree now clothed in a deep living green
Songs of such joy to th' Immortal redound

Released from our toil, we too in new soil
now Grow in fresh earth, singing songs of rebirth.
And casting our sorrows on Hope's eternal tomorrows,
Season our days with new tongues of new praise.

~Andy Smith