One brown leaf
Left on the tree
The wind is whipping it
Desperately trying to set it free
Or kill it.

The last one
Before coldness
And despair howls in
Complemented by Boston snow.

Always the last one,
With no companion
To fall to the ground with
Or to endure the pressure of the wind.
Always at the end
Always left in despair.

And yet always the first
To bloom in the Spring
And guide the way
For everyone else.