November, a single leaf,
Once a vivid green,
Now scarred by the sun,
To a dingy brown.
Battered and worn by the wind,
Clings desperately to the tree,
It’s only source of life,
Holding on with endless hope,
Refusing to let go,
Like a lonely lover,
Denying fate it’s due,
Striving to avoid the fall,
That will bring it slowly to the ground,
Spinning in the chill air,
To lay withered with its brethren,
Until it is dust once again.
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