I’ve had my eye on my leaf

all winter.

It is the last leaf on a tree by the big barn,

the others have left in the Fall.

It has chosen to stay,

and each morning,

I nod and say hey.

In a week or two, it will be pushed

off by a bud, as Spring is just about here.

Is it already dead, or living its own kind of life?

I’ve come to admire it, a friend,

for its determination and stubbornness.

It will go when it is ready.

It does not look dead to me,

in the morning light.