At the end of the leaf the last drop,
Long after the torrential storm.
I am the leaf, reflecting
On this, the tiny blob.

I was shaken by the gales,
Almost struck by lightning,
Cowed by explosions up high,
Then drenched to the bone.

It happened, I vouch for it,
Then dead the stop. Now
I ponder in my droopy green head:
When to let my blob drop?

 

Main photo credit: Acagastya, via Wikimedia Commons

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