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The last golden leaves are held tight by the selfish trees, not wanting their autumnal glory to pass so quickly...
The cold creeps in gradually, each successive layer surplanting the last, each successive layer minutely colder. The roots, deep in the good earth, are unaffected. The flow of sap in the trunk and branches is stifled. The last leaf trembles in the gusting winds. Gravity, ice and snow try their best to rip the leaf from the tree. The tree will not yield. Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn, It tenaciously clings to the leaf And the leaf to the tree. It's all they know. But the elements are not to be outlasted; They persist. The battle lasts through the hard winter. The leaf clings desperately, knowing that it is at the end of its resources. The tree, however, becomes increasingly indifferent. For the sap is rising, the sign of a new spring, of new growth. Why should it retain its interest in this old leaf, even as loyal as it has been, when the excitement of young new leaves is in the offing? The last leaf lets go, resigned to its fate, fluttering softly, randomly to the ground. The breeze pushes it upon the remains of its fellows, sodden from the melting snow. Its season is over.
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