The last leaf, right there in front of me
having lasted through the first snow of winter.
It stayed long after the bitter winds first arrived,
long after the temperatures dropped.
That last leaf, ironically, the sole green leaf of a dead tree remained.
I once thought it would always stay,
that last tree, that last leaf.
It trembles, not excitedly like a young child, but shivering like
a bird caught in the storm, in time to the stars' cold pulse.
There is nothing left,
There is only that dead tree that trembling leaf, and me,
all in the first snow of winter.
My last winter.
That is obvious.
Especially when the war destroyed the others;
the war they brought upon themselves.
My eyes close, closing against the mocking wind,
closing against the rejoicing snow, closing triedly,
but not before I see the last leaf fall.