by Randall Nicholas
There is one leaf on the tree
where before there were thousands.
I think it is stuck,
not heroically hanging on
but having been blown off another tree
and been caught,
and will stay there,
waggling at me all Winter,
rain-drenched, frost-bitten, snow-covered,
spore-specked at last till pushed off
by the next generation.
I like that. I like the idea of a dead leaf
impaled on a tree not its own
posing as a real leaf. It is a statement
of what I am.