Hanging On
I see you, last flower,
hanging on like O.Henry’s leaf
painted on the brick wall
trying to save a little girl’s life.
Are you a mutation
or in defiance of the cold,
with your withered companions,
basking under the street light’s
sodium orange rays?
Your stalk bows sarcastically
to the November night wind.
Hold on, sweet blossom.
If you can survive
one more frosty night,
I can endure another
cycle of solstice and equinox.