Chlorophyll.

There is a tree who still burns brightly; as green as June, as green as May.
In the midst of his neighbour's October garb he clings to a cloak that's heavy with naked Oak's envy; rich with a Willow's lust.
I visit him often -daily now, as the last of his kin weep the remains of their tattered costumes to an already frostbit earth.
As I sit by his knees, (all knocked and notched with lover's promises,) I wonder aloud (if not to him, than to myself,)
"Who's allowed you to remain so modest? Who's given you the right to retain your pride?"

"I call Him 'Lord'. The One you call 'Maker'."

"But Fairness!" I scream.

"Our answers are thin," he said, through the thickest of leaves, "I won't waste my time weeping 'Why?!' I shall deep root, and I shall stretch tall. I will cling fast to the face of my Father; (to the grace of my Father,) to the place where my Father said 'Be born and die.'"

What patience.
What obedience.
What trust.
What hope.



Reach! you chlorophylled leaves.
Want! you roots in soil.