The lady-like leaves gently shiver
in the ruthless pangs of the winter cool. They shrivel up,
trying to hide from the cold. Swaying back and forth,
their fragile bodies
get caught on the branches.

Despite the biting weather, they’re emeralds
in a tidal wave of white. Hidden by the darkness of the ledge
on which they rest, they try to tough it out. Maybe spring
is near?

Gone is the perfect symmetry of summer,
the callous conditions turn them
into twitching, barely there emerald cocoons.
Twisting around the last breath of hope
that is the branch, they will survive.

Though the white is never-ending,
only in size is it greater. The leaves have
more strength; a turtle beating a rabbit in a race.
The white will melt away
but the leaves will disintegrate,
becoming ubiquitous,
a part of everything.