Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
The Last Leaf by Mike Bayles The last leaf crisp and crimson of a maple tree in the yard waves in a crisp November wind. It waits to fall To be consumed by the ground, While a cold wind sings a song of melancholy. The riches of a nearby cornfield just picked lies in shadows cast by the setting sun spread across the farm. The Harvest moon rises to the east. A father rests in bed, weary but proud, the oldest son bedside. They engage in solemn conversations about the passage of many seasons and the many lives they’ve known, the promise of a cold winter to come.