The Last Leaf
If by a miracle or in a long dream
we could become what we now only seem,
clouds in the sky or trees in the park,
stars in the heavens or fish in a stream,
I’d be a Live Oak with moss on my bark;
a deciduous giant with green leaves and gold
to wave in the warm wind and drop in the cold.
I’d stand here forever growing older than old.
But if that never happens, as it doubtless will not,
let me at minimum live in one spot
till the last leaf of life has fallen away,
How long will it be? Can anyone say?
Of the future I could never determine a lot.
What if the last leaf fell yesterday?