(Photo Credit: Olan L. Smith)
Last Leaf Remaining
©12-20-2015, Olan L. Smith
Leaves falling from a tree pass by him,
Cousins, friends and neighbors, and he watches them
Twirl down from his tree until they carpet the ground.
He hangs on in the cold breeze
Waiting his turn. The old man picks up a book
And squints, or positions his loupe in front of it
Reading one word at a time in complacency,
A constant reminder of aging. The old man
Rises from his rocking chair and they listen
As his bones crack and pop; his crackly voice utters
Swear words, "Damn! Fires-a-blazon,
I did not ask for this." Only, survivors
Are allowed to curse their pain.
A multitude of friends die, turned to so
Much mulch for fertilizer. With friend and family
Gone what is there to live for? Who desires coddling?
An old man? Cane in hand he slowly makes his
Way shuffling his feet, slowing down, the youthful
Ones who hang on to his every word for one
Bit of wisdom to spill from his mouth,
And they jot it down in hopes to gain enlightenment
That will not come. Another chum schemes to steal
His wealth, but he has none his treasure is his mind
Close to his bosom, his words written down for the ages.
Come youth know that understanding
Is earned by simply surviving. No soul becomes wise
By wishful thinking, you cannot skim the surface, leaf
Pages of life, and hope wisdom wears off,
Or think by osmosis it will transfer, wait your turn.
Hang on for all you are worth and it will come.