Here comes fall again, the orange and yellow and greens are mixing, bleeding into each other.
How beautiful, you say.
I ask you; is death beautiful?
Yes, it is. But only when it has a purpose.
Then, it becomes the wisdom of accepting reality rather than shamefully clinging to the delusion of eternity. It becomes a door to a new beginning rather than a back cover on a book.
Those leaves dry out and fall to let the tree live through the winter, to allow new leaves to unfold in the crisp spring air. They give way to others, but not leaving without a blaze, although many might not take notice.
That doesn’t mean they will be forgotten; don’t you remember those leaves from your childhood? When you jumped in the piles, when you walked around and enjoyed the sound of the leaves under your shoes, when all the colors seemed brighter? Don’t you remember the deep colors covering the forest you walked through with someone special once you were older?
But the tree is still alive, you say. Isn’t that something?
Ah, so you liken yourself to the tree. Able to survive the winter. But isn’t that a bit presumptuous of you? Where are your leaves? What do you reunite, bind together, allow to live? No, we are the leaves, ephemeral but beautiful. Don’t be so disappointed; what would a tree be without it’s leaves? We are important too, but just like the leaves, we do not live for ourselves. We live for something greater than ourselves, something which will outlive us all.
What, you ask? Well, that is for you to decide. Which tree will your leaf feed?