Still, some over-wintered
oak leaves will hang fast.  Until
sap rises in the spring, like jilted
lover’s, they will cling with hollow shafts, to the
frolic of the summer past.  But soon, as old loves
whisk away, a bud, already taken shape, awaits
on twig tip for its single chance to dance into a daylight
waltz with Sun and wind and rain.  How we anticipate
the unfurled bliss of that first vernal kiss,
a story many times been told, this
ode to photosynthesis.