The Last Leaf To Fall Poem by Sally DeSmet Trueblood

When the last leaf has tiptoed down from the security of its shapely branch, lightly spinning without destiny,
to the company of the early leaves that passed before,
it takes its place on the cold dark ground.
Who among us knows that it clung tighter, stayed longer,
and didn't want to give up the security of the shapely strong branch.

Now its there among the other leaves, vast, dense, and lost,
and as the winds scatter all the leaves away from the security of
the stately tree,
the last clinging leaf, the strongest one, has no more glory, nor honor,
nor reverence than the first leaves, the weaker ones,
that dropped off at the first signs of fall.
The last leaf to die, still dies.
Goodbye, goodbye.