Hang On

Leaves blow in gusts past my window.
The red, the gold, the russet
replace the green.

Their gaiety could make death
seem pleasant,
except for what goes in between.

But I also know
that oaks make no effort to hurry.
Their leaves hang on

like coats out of closets for winter.
Not even snow,
or the power of logic can strip them.

I, too, hang on. Hell yes, I’m old,
but I’m damned if I’m going to admit it.
Hang on. Hang on.