Winter Oak Tree

Winter Oak Tree

The oak tree is full of dried brown leaves. 
We have a foot of snow; 
the wind has been howling, 
yet they stay attached. 

I stood there for a moment, listening.
The sound is familiar, but I can't put my finger on it. 
They sound like a gentle rain when the wind blows.
Like turning magazine pages on a windy day at the beach. 
Or is it a round of applause for the last man standing?

Are they like me, holding onto the branches for dear life
because they're afraid to let go of the place that feels like home? 

It's a crisper sound than an autumn leaf. 
Like glasses clinking together. 
They shimmer and shake. 

As I look around
I notice
all of the other trees are bare except this oak tree. 
It is cold. 
Frozen.

How do these leaves not shatter and fall apart
when the wind rustles them together? 

I want to touch one, but my hands are warm inside my mittens. 
Would it crumble in my hand?
Would the edges feel like glass against my cold skin?

How defiant they are to cling to the branches
months after all the other trees have gone bare.

In a few months, will these leaves that dangle
like tarnished jewels resent the spring buds
as they push them aside and grow bright
and green with the sun's warmth?

Will the branches sigh in relief once they've fallen?

It is called marcescent, 
this withering without falling off.

As February ends,
I also feel like I am withering
without falling.