Our front porch is littered with leaves; a multi-hued memorial to yesterday’s beauty. Each leaf a singular event, separate yet connected to the whole. Their color fades with my memory of what was, leaving nothing but a brittle skeleton to remind me that life is short and nothing temporal lasts forever.
I am disquieted . . .
But I am not going to sweep them away. I like how they look, the natural disarray so contrary to my organized and controlled life. The desire to write about these leaves has haunted me for days, yet I fear spewing forth mundane and cliché thoughts on depression, decline and death.
The trees let go of their past glory and the leaves fall, though some stubbornly cling to the branches in a futile attempt to resist the changing season. Yet death is not so much an end as it is a beginning, a step towards metamorphosis; a preparation for rebirth.
Leaves spread along the ground like rose petals on the bridal path . . .
Leaves cushioning the journey like palm branches strewn before the humble king . . .
These leaves represent my memories and I long to be the child who merrily rakes the dead fragments into piles and jumps upon them with joy, a carefree scattering to the wind.