That last leaf hung on the old tree’s branch

That last leaf hung on the old tree’s branch,

brown and brittle, a relic waiting to fall.

It should have held on through the warm sun,

rooted in life, but it betrayed its place.

The bark beneath cracked and dry,

a bed meant for growth now shriveling slow.

I watched the leaf drift off in the wind—

a small surrender in the backyard’s hush.

Life once promised here, whispered loud in spring,

yet this branch gave up, starved for something lost.

The tree’s breath shallow, a dying sigh

in the place it should have taken root.

And I stood, watching

something die where it was meant to grow,

like hope made flesh

and left to shrivel away.