The branches uncovered, the breezes develop cold,
The last leaf grips, its story told.
It shudders there, in sundown’s hold,
A blaze of life, both valiant and intense.
Through summer’s glow and pre-winter’s effortlessness,
It held its place, it kept its face.
While others fell, delivered and free,
It remained alone, keep going on the tree.
The varieties blur from green to gold,
A quiet, major areas of strength for observer old.
It murmurs delicate, to wind and sky,
Of all it’s seen, of bygone ages.
When part of many, brimming with tune,
A lavish, green reality where it should have been.
Presently let be, in calm pride,
A memory of seasons tied.
The tempests might come, the days develop dim,
However still it holds, a small flash.
However time might attempt to pull it down,
It grips to life, without a sound.
An image valid for life’s own battle,
To hang on close, to go after light.
The keep going leaf on the old tree,
Stands tall, a last inheritance.
It realizes that before long its time will end,
To float where different leaves dive.
However, in its last and passing dance,
It enjoys life’s own last opportunity.
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