This may be the best opportunity, in what remains of our Midwestern Winter, to post this poem. The forecast for tonight is 3-5 more inches of snow, and for now at least, I'm feeling like this poor desicated little leaf:
One withered leaf still clings to its barren branch,
Though winter’s wind is harsh and frigid cold
Should free the fragile stem’s tenacious grasp.
What keeps it clutching to a lifeless limb,
When its green and supple beauty is long gone?
Perhaps the memory of its verdant past,
Or fear of the uncertainty to come.
© DJB, 2004