The Last Leaf
A few leaves stay for a while on the trees
After their color begins to turn,
And no other leaves seem as gold as these
Not even the ones our bonfires burn
With golden flames in piles on the ground.
A few leaves stay so long that I found
The one last leaf on a tree in the snow,
And when a galloping wind came round
The edge of our house and started to blow
Snow dust to sparkles floating free.
When the wind ran away, almost with me,
And sunshine settled quiet and cold.
There, like a bird, still on the tree
Was that lonesome leaf, no longer gold
But curly and brown and dry and old.
– Harry Behn