The last tree on the avenue

 

In winter’s unforgiving chill,

I stared at

The last tree on the avenue –

The only one

That still had leaves;

Brandished in fiery red:

Auburn, burgundy, coral,

As if, the leaves,

Paled in winter’s cold

Will give way any minute

To bereavement in emptiness

Just like all the many others

 

And yet,

They have held still, frozen in time

For all these weeks,

Deluding winter,

Holding a sigil of resistance

They will not fall

(Like a real-life canvas

Of Porter’s tale from long time ago)

Offering hues of hope,

Shades of strength

That there can be colours

Despite the Arctic breeze

 

The leaves, perhaps dead

But unfallen -

Melt the icy frost within,

Reminding of those few

Who stand with gumption

When all else fails -

They who are not expected

To fight

Sometimes turn soldiers

Sentinels, stewards,

Of an unworthy world

 

For they fight

Despite knowing

That when spring comes

The avenue will green again

But passers-by,

Will not remember

The one tree from the rest

Which, when the world ran bare

Painted in blood

Flowers of fronds

That there be colours

In the season of emptiness …