It's the last poem of the year,
drifting lazily from my mind,
like a warm, worn leaf
catching a wisp of sunlight wind
as it breaks free of the tree
from which it sprouted in spring,
and I watch as it lands gently
upon the page of my notebook,
this book of leaves,
these memories and dreams,
pressed in wax paper,
to save and reflect on in the future,
some wrinkled and tattered and
brown and gray and brittle and dead,
others bright with reds and oranges
beautiful and alive, vivid with colours,
all traced in the veins of the year past.
Close the book, put down the pen,
blow away the leaves,
for this year is done,
it is dark and so quiet,
sitting here back home,
and outside the window
snowflakes are starting to fall, drifting in the air,
and now the last poem is written,
and I may rest
and dream again.
