The rhododendron trail has a roof
Clad in hues
Of departing autumn:
Orange of the maple leaf,
Ever so elegant in its fall;
Green of the magnolia,
Eager to blush at the faintest whispers
The barren have long shed their green
Revealing my winter blues –
An endless playground for wings.
Death is the end, only
If you think it so;
Just ask the tiny oak nut that rebels,
And breaches the silence
Of an infinite jungle on tiptoes.