Stories Leaves Tell

Why do leaves when they die hold more beauty
than they do in the time they spend alive?

Leaves green in life change colors as they die,
and I wonder why so plain in life?

Why save so much color and beauty for the end?
Sometimes the beauty of a story is the end.

Perspective

There's a map of the world on my desk. It reminds me the world is both big and small, and all our differences are both big and small. I am an invisible dot on that map, and yet I cover whole continents with the palm of my hand. 

It's all a matter of perspective. 

What can I do but weep as I read the names of so many places where people do unspeakable things to each other? What can I do but weep when I seek refuge in my own heart, and there find so much fear and selfishness? How can we do anything but weep when we wake up each morning to a broken world so full of darkness?

Will we ever learn to listen and to see?

Will we ever learn to love?