Looking, at the trees

I’ve been. Looking, at the trees.  Watching their sudden, flamboyant burst, into neon. Mustard, gold, fire. 

I’ve been.  Musing on these trees. Pretending it’s 3 weeks from now, October, maybe. These same trees are sans their shimmering party clothes. And, now, They’re visible only in their very essence: branch, bark, drab. ( I wonder if they ever get tired of spending half the year shivering without their leafy outfits?)

I, am not an autumn lover; although I recognize and acknowledge the beauties, I mostly spend time whispering sad farewells to the birds who seem to be in a hurry to leave, dreading the loss of the long summer days, missing the sunshine, fawning over my plants that are slowly, and then all at once, curling their shrivelling leaves, and inhaling the pungent smell of their decay. In short: mourning summer. The trees are the saddest and the most dramatic symbol of fall, though. I’ve always thought about the leaves: they  work so hard all summer: to stay green and healthy, be a haven to any bird or child or animal who lands among them, shade the ground beneath them, feed insects and birds and animals and people, and then, suddenly: one day, the tree decides to stop giving 

 them life, they have no choice but to merge into the brightest shades in the rainbow before dropping and withering to nothing. I know these leaves have been linked to life, death, the whole human experience, by more writers and lecturers than I can know of, and it’s a nice thought. But what if there’s another way of looking at it. 

Forget the leaves’ POV, Think about the tree: basic green, then party clothes, then nothing, over and over and over, year after year after year; are people like that? Do I have seasons, every year/month, 5 years/months, 2 years/months? Or maybe that’s me every week; this thought is sort of strange, a new one to me. Are there times in my life where I’m routinely green, growing, feeding, sheltering, shading and suddenly something snaps, I get really bright, maybe good bright: extra generous, full of kind words, glowing with goodness; maybe bad bright: anger often, anxious, cruel. And then I am exhausted, and wilt and all those bright leaves fall away. And I rest, empty, drab, with only the bark and branch essence of myself, the real me, with  no leaves to hide behind, getting ready to put on all those green leaf traits again. Maybe humans aren’t as routine as trees; maybe this doesn’t happen to us as often as it happens to them, But maybe it does, Happen to us.