The poem was completed at 11a.m. on Veteran's Day, 2010. This day in history was marked as being the "eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" of 1918, commemorating the armistice (signed at Compiegne, France) between the Allies of World War I and Germany. While this official date reflects the cease fire on the Western Front, other countries in the region chose to continue the fighting and to be the last to leave.
The Last To Leave
The climbing honeysuckle vine,
always last to drop its blossoms
before winter sets in,
blooms in mid-November's
quiet morning sun.
It is a favorite refueling stop
for hummingbirds.
Just a few weeks ago, I spied
one such feathered jewel,
now - long gone
on its yearly journey to Mexico.
I stroll garden paths,
discover again freshly turned dirt where
daffodil and tulip bulbs lie buried deep.
Hopefully, their roots will grow
to anchor them before
a yet-to-come hard freeze.
A while back,
I watered their dormant,
naked forms, and left them
mulch-covered.
Perhaps - just one more
douse of water would be good.
It hasn't rained for some time.
I sit quietly on a bench
beneath a leafless tamarack,
almost hidden from
the sky's eyes.
Hearing geese moving southward,
I enter my house, not wanting to be
the last to leave.
