Our once first ones are hesitantly told.
A second, third and dozens more unfold
And they are, all of them, deceiving eyes.
These glints of sound and raucous shines; each vies
For pure long past. As for sense, it runs cold,
In sluggish order, creeping brown, red, gold,
To flash and daze before it fallen dies
Whilst holding seed to seed canopies.
Until then, grow, amaze and do abound
With life, but look closer. Observing trees,
These lives, from roots, like us, do go aground.
Of seasons, ages, all, we are the leaves
That pass without a trace and shed no sound.
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