Alone it clings, the autumn’s last,
A whisper from the seasons past.
Its golden veins, so frail, so thin,
Yet fighting hard against the wind.

The branches bare, its friends all gone,
Yet it refuses to move on.
It holds its breath, defies the fall,
A silent warrior standing tall.

For though the winter calls its name,
It burns with life—a tiny flame.
A final stand, a last decree,
The soul of hope, the last leaf on the tree.