It won’t be long now before this leaf is no more, before a new bud burgeons and sends it to its final resting place on the moldy ground. Its life will continue there as a mere remnant of its former self while the elements, never resting, subsume it as nourishment for future generations making way for the triumphant entry of the new growth onto the spring stage.
It is obvious, too, in the slight shift in the air, in a decidedly new sweetening as it pulls away from the pure icy whiteness of winter. There is a fresh new clean smell as the sun draws the water molecules skyward, a scent not unlike something newly washed, rinsed of the residue of a hard winter.
This leaf’s moment of glory is behind it, yet it hangs on long past its prime, stubborn in its refusal to break from its tether, holding on until the very end, finishing its days as metaphor, as symbol, of what, only we who ponder such things might guess at.