When all the other trees are bare,
Why do those last few oak leaves cling up there
under the cold blue sky?
Don’t they know when to die?
And to think: after the long freeze,
when warmth revives and fills these empty trees
with the green stuff of spring,
they’ll still be lingering,
brown, withered, and grotesquely curled,
with their dry whispers from another world.
Leaves, cling where you grew!
Maybe I’ll hang on too.
Survivors by Richard Moore