The leaves that lie upon the snow
disturb the purity of white.
Their keepers were a bit too slow
to get the season's timing right.

They settle on the crystal flakes,
and flutter in the winter breeze.
The ghost of season past awakes
to mourn beneath the naked trees.

Now, some may rise in sultry dance,
while others wobble 'cross the drifts,
as if they're in some sort of trance.
Remainders doing minor lifts.

But oh, they're so unusual,
to be atop and not below.
It may have been delusional
to see them lie upon the snow.