A few refuse to leave the tree. They cling to branches, never mind the wind and snow. Perhaps they think in spring they will rejuvenate, turn green and greet the bees and butterflies. Perhaps they hope to finally fall, be swept by wind, a flock of sparrows, spinning upward, brown leaves fluttering to the sky.
Leaves, don’t leave,
don’t take the seasons
when you fly away.
published in Write Under the Moon
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