Late Fall

We had a huge wind storm last night that sent nearly all the rest of the leaves on my maple tree scattering, covering my yard. But a hardy few continue to cling to hope. At the same time I find myself in a storm of my own, a relationship that is but isn't. Confusing. Neither of us willing or able to finally let go or move forward. These storms inspired the following feeble attempt at poetry with the wonderful Mary Oliver as my inspiration.

Late Fall

They hold tightly,
a few golden hands
gripping bare arms.
All the others have let go,
dancing down to their destiny.
The few, the strong, the brave
Continue on, fighting to hold their place in the world.
I admire their courage but my heart aches
for their lonely vigil, bereft of hope.
We haven’t had our first frost yet, they seem to whisper.
Where’s the harm in holding out hope?
Or perhaps their tenacious hold is simply fear of falling.
They must eventually let go. Winter is coming.
Even last night's storm
couldn't shake their resolve.
Is it the tree that holds them tight,
fearing exposure, complete nakedness,
vulnerability?
Or the leaves that refuse to depart,
even knowing the tree
neither wants nor needs them?
Perhaps both cling to hope, unwilling
To face the inevitable death of another year.
Why can't they just drop, die and then --
become new again in my compost pile,
their carbon molecules
going back into the world
in new form? Dying to new life