Stunningness the Tasma

Survivor

Look.
In the cold, a ragged leaf is blown
Through the air, and it lands
In the snow. Look.
It is not weak.

For years ago, when the ground was bare,
Out popped a seedling, stretching into the air.
And through the years it grew and grew,
Leaves spread and flowers bloomed.
For days, weeks, months, the leaves remained
Humble in breezes, calm in the rain,
Earnestly reaching for the sun.
Thriving. They were not weak.
Through the seasons and the weather,
Lots of nests and frayed feathers,
The leaves stayed put.
Strength slowly waning, yet
Still holding.
They were not weak.
But, things don't last forever.

First came the dryness:
Moisture sucked from the air,
flowers wilted and all leaves fell,
Save for a singleton remaining.
It was not weak.
Then came the cold and the harsh, battering snow.
The battle of warmth the sun lost - all know.
Lands, plains, woods smothered in white.
The leaf broke off, flying
With the wind, away from the tree,
Where it had always been with its brethren,
Blown through the air,
And it landed
In the snow. Look.

The scars, tears,
Cracks, scabs.
It is not weak.
It is a survivor.