The tree stands tall amidst the strife
The wind and the rain have now come
Half empty with leaves still clinging to life
Long have fallen more than just some

Waving in the wind, stand the lucky few
Or are they lucky even at all?
For the old and decrepit often wish death anew
yearn the life brought after their fall.

Would I cling to the branch of my grip far above,
Resisting temptation all days?
Or release my hand clenched to those I love
And jump to the golden bright haze

New Life will form from the grip I once had
Budding as seasons await.
Oh please not land in the rake of a lad
only to pack down in brown bags of late.