Last Leaf
Unheralded, whispering,
the cold dry wind;
Smooth, unflustered, continuous,
It flew past nonchalant, unflinched.
Scoured everything with it's icy stare,
Sweeping, blanketing,
it rode on and ahead.
Big or small, stunted or tall,
it sped upon and spread.
Birch or pine, oak or maple,
Bare or confined, faltering or stable,
Hoarded upon by it's giant stride,
shivering they yeild,
To it's bludgeoning might.
Surging and surfing,
plundering, it thunders up to me
Stuttering, shaking,
Quivering I be.
Holding on to the last strand, I merely breathe,
It plays the terror, ferocious it is,
But I'll hold on my branch, my maple tree
The cold wind can trample, it can decree
I be the last leaf, it can't set me free.
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