The Last Leaves on the Tree

The wisdom of oak and beech

They hang there still, the leaves of gold and brown. No longer bright, they linger though others cloak the ground.

Why would a tree retain its leaves through ice and blasting snow? A tree must feel the pull of sleep when winter lulls its soul.

So how explain these clinging leaves that crackle when they talk? A blessed place for huddled birds, escape from hungry hawks?

What need is served, I ask again, though the question is absurd, for Nature never will explain her plans for beast or bird.

Still they remain, those brittle leaves clinging to oak and beech, until the spring with urgent wings seeks space for nascent green.

Then will the beech and oak bestir, shedding their leaves sans further demur.