Leaves on Eastretide

I would that we were, leaves of that old Yew Tree,
through chill of eastern wind, we stand tall and free.
Firm on slender branch, scratching the rim of sky,
the dreaming dew dabbled lovers, you and I.

Though we grow weary of the strangers we feel,
the machinations of Blight, mildew, and steel.
For two-hundred long scores we have endured here,
never have we fell, though our rivals come near.

Above our rocking branch, hangs fate all the same,
the spring sky that cradles the meteor flame.
Clutch it in our palms, set it down and aside,
for not even leaves may die on Eastertide.
.