I can see it from my window in my neighbor’s maple tree:
The one remaining last and lonely leaf.
Its brother and its sister leaves are now just yard debris,
But this one still persists in unbelief.
Though once it was a shade of green, it’s now an orangish-red,
No more a chlorophylled-up sugar-maker;
Instead it just refuses to admit that it is dead—
And be blown away to face that old Grim Raker.
For all throughout these latter days the wind has blown a gale
And rain has pelted down upon its…pelt;
Not only that, but also we’ve had snow and sleet and hail—
All of which it swears it hasn’t felt.
So there it clings and vows to stay through winter’s icy days—
A shadow now of summer’s “maple stud”;
He’s sure that then he’ll be revived to sugar-making ways…
But he’d best look out for spring’s young buck, er, bud.
—Anon A. Mouse