Day after day, I watch the change outside my window and wonder,
“Does she know what's happening to her?
Does she know what's coming?”
The transition is gradual, but stark.
A patch of orange, high up, to the right.
A spot of yellow in the middle.
Does she remember these
same cool nights last year?
The ones that whispered,
"A change… a change is coming."
Does she remember her brilliant
reds and oranges and yellows?
Does she recall how the warmth and light,
once consumed by her dark green canopy,
began to fill her brightest, newly repainted leaves
until they could hold no more,
exhaling breaths of brilliant fire like little dragons?
Does she sense that this life-giving
source of warmth and light
is arriving a little later now each morning,
and retreating a little earlier in the evening?
What does she make of the chill in the air
and her longer stretches of slumber?
Is she tired from the hard work of growing,
content now to release the grip on her leaves?
Or is she anxious, grieving her loss,
worried for what's next?
As each leaf departs, does she
quietly thank it for its life-giving work?
Or does she absorb the painful loss,
sending her grief to her roots?
Does this all seem new to her,
or is it strangely familiar?
Does she hear the message, carried by the wind
that caresses her increasingly bare limbs?
The same wind that pulls her leaves from her grasp
and gently lays them on the ground.
The wind that whispers her destiny,
offering comfort and hope.
"Rest, dear one.
Settle into your peace and deep slumber.
You've been here before. You'll be here again.
A time to grow. A time to rest.
A season for both."