Why do the pale bronze leaves of beech
betray the legacy of fall
by holding fast to suborn twigs
beyond the time of Autumn’s call.
Through winter’s winds and snows they cling
reluctant to let go
until the gentle nudge of spring
drops them awash in melting snow.
I see them in the winter woods
a yellow patch in barren trees
their parchment curls are clustered near
and quiver in the cold north breeze.
Perhaps like them I cling too much
to seasons past and seasons seen
for spring will come with burst of buds
to fill a waiting world with green.
Ann B Day 1971
I need help to write in poetic forms)