An angel on the tree

Autumnal colors veil Central Park.
Perched on a bough I spied him
Shouldering his burden without complaint.
A lowly ranking Angel cast.
The angst of his lot I know well.

I see him pondering;
to shed his burden or retain it.
Whilst the cunning rustling leaves
desert the mother tree.

Could things depart as readily as leaves
Fleeing her once proud mantle.
Would a thought be so fleeting as trees
calmly shedding what is theirs.

Seeing his anguished, partly naked being,
the realization dawned, it was I
That imposed the burden.
A burden called hope that would in time
come fluttering down to earth.