The Cold of Winter

The cold of winter is too
Quickly upon us, the leaves
Too Quickly lay upon the ground
To die?

Lord, do we cool and
Fall as the leaves? Do you allow
Your servants to breathe and fall
Without a sound, ungrafted from
The limbs to slide way into the
abyss?

Dust is the end of all leaves.
Do you send us to the dust?

Life surges through my viens
As water through the roots
Unto the leaf. 
I feel eternal.
Will I be quick or dead?

I made some changes to the poem after writing it down…for better or worse?