Well, hello there

Little stranger in a land of snow.

Have we met before?

Perhaps in August

When you shimmered in shades of emerald?

Or was it in September

When you were bathed in gold?

Your face is familiar

But your hue has changed;

Meek little brown thing

That you are,

But still perfect in form,

With your serrated edges

Still so cleanly cut.

Do not despair,

Small, lonely leaf;

Spring is coming,

And in May’s first flawless green-gold offering,

I’ll know you are re-born.

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