Time's Terminal Poem by James Walter Orr

Mistletoe still grows high in the tree top,
Though all the leaves have fallen from the tree.
Near me stands no other human being,
For they have fallen, leaving only me.

Spring can grow new leaves but no tomorrows.
The mistletoe throughout the woods are rife,
Clinging, like me, on the forest branches.
We're parasites upon each branch of life.

We sap love from that which does sustain us,
Initiating that we cannot reach,
Watching leaves dropp down like falling feathers;
Like falling thoughts that never turn to speech.

Chilling fall turns into bitter winter.
The freezing day turns into frigid night.
Coverlets of fallen leaves have vanished:
Buried beneath a mantle made of white.