The Last Leaf (For O. Henry)

She sighed from her sick bed

That once the final leaf

From the ivy outside

The upstairs window

Fell

She would release her failing grip

On what was left

Of her fading life.

Winter proved harsh that year

With winds and storms

That seemed enraged

At the last bit of green

Clinging against

The brick and mortar,

Defiant and frail.

She would stare for hours

At that weak, little bud

Pelted by the rain and snow

And inevitable ice

That held the world

In a temporary state

Of suspended animation

Fully prepared

To give up her ghost.

It wasn’t until

The first bird of spring

Chirped outside the frosted pane

And renewed faith returned

That I revealed

The ivy leaf I painted.