The Last Leaf
He watched an autumn leaf,
the last on the branch,
twitch in a wind
heavy with the promise of winter.
His eyes stung,
- from the wind, no doubt -
as he remembered
how she had walked through these woods,
her voice soft with spring’s promise.
Now he brushed the silver hair out of his eyes,
- blast his eyes, watering like that -
and looked at the trees,
lifting bare hands to the heavens,
if his spring would ever come again,
or if he,
like that last leaf, finally dropping,
would be caught in the wind
to blow away alone.
Sitting there, in the tree,
he watched the leaves
and gray sky,
and a trickle overflowed his stinging eye
to dry coldly against his cheek.