Last Leaf

Poem 6

1184

It’s winter

and all the leaves have fallen…

All but this one

still hanging all forlorn

So high

above the graveyard of its peers;

Sear and brittle,

without the juice of youth,

It rattles,

not flutters, in the breeze.

Those leaves

it knew that grew

Before

and with and after

Lie

folded to the earth

Or blown

into the sky’s oblivion

Forgotten

while forgetting…

And,

all the while,

That

one last leaf

Rides

back and forth

Its barren branch

swaying in the wind

And

shuddering in the cold,

Despondent

of its tethering stem

Which

holds it there, alone…

And,

 ready to fly free,

The last leaf strains

and dreams

A riot

of rustling green….

A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.