At the very tip top is a branch that reaches with all its might. It soaks in all of my warmth with one leaf high above the others beginning its bloom.
Day after day it uncurls just a bit. Green gleams through. In a very short time, it is broad and welcoming. A conduit of health for the maturing tree.
As breezes come and go, it waves at me. I smile back. Warming the air in which it sways. Alone. At the top. Doing all that’s expected of it. Joined by many other leaves, it looks down at them and up at me.
The thickened breeze carries with it inevitably long days, which I come to treasure. The Earth displays her proverbial feathers to show me all of the good she grows with me. Like the diva she is, bathing in my spotlight.
But as the endless cycle goes so must she. The days shorten. Spring’s glory melts in the heat of summer, which now slows on the brink of fall. But then there’s the young Maple. The one in the meadow where no other trees dare grow.
Atop the tree’s tallest branch is the leaf that long ago became a familiar friend. Still it sways on the chilled currents of autumn. For in its youth, it reveled in crowds of friends – never really being part. And as they went their ways, it stayed.
For what, you ask.
Cold nights. Gray days. Harsh survival. I watched as it curled. I winced as it browned.
But come tomorrow.
It will still be there because it knows no other place to be.
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| Photo by me, 2010. Please request permission before using. |
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