Summer’s end approaches, the poplars are first to know
sending yellow leaves drifting to the green carpet below.
Straight and tall they stand in their silent glory
catching not the ordinary ear or eye
demanding not the saw or splie.
Brittle in every insistent breeze, they do not yield
taking the majestic oak and rustling maple as shields.
Only time forces them to come to ground
by branch and limb, one by one, until weary
they stand, devoid of youth’s greenery.
Autumn’s quick coming is not to be met foolishly,
this she knows in the unplumbed depths of many sleepless
nights.
The poplar knows not how to bend but she does,
learning forced upon her in summer and spring,
lessons taught by those unwary of her flight.
Equal to the stately oak, the poplar stands with grace,
asked and received, yet hidden from those who cannot see.
Autumn comes clothed in brilliant shades of joy,
standing firm, unrelenting in her convictions,
awake, unafraid, acknowledging winter will come.
KC Kendricks
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