No, no, no, the leaves are saying,
thrashing about in the wind.
We don’t want to go;
we don’t want to be parted from our branch.
We love it here, even as we brown with age.
Love must be forever, or it is not love,
and the leaves fling themselves
to and fro in the wind.
The dark comes and no longer can the leaves be seen,
though they can be heard thrashing to and fro
against each other.
(Reflections are provided each week by a member of the congregation.)