Last Leaf

You
and your leaf-mates
are usually the last to drop,
but the others shrugged off weeks ago.
All that’s left
of the tree
are the bones
and you
clinging
wearing the gray whiskers
of late autumn.
Crystals cartwheel past you
caught in the swirl of
sharp wind fingers
that grab
at your orange jacket.
You know they aren’t serious
about winter
yet.
So you linger
until it is your time.