Leaves of locust tree and Japanese maple lie mingled on the ground.
The gold and red leaves on green grass glow bright in the crisp cold air. I feel stunned by the intensity of their colors - it contrasts with my stomach, which is dull and full from lunch of chicken, potatoes and slugs of chocolate milk. I almost reel with the scene flooding into my eyes.
I'm ashamed to say I've always disliked the weedy locust. Now on the ground, the spider-like branches make an intricate pattern. Looking up at the tree's sprawl, I wonder if I may have it cut down next year.
No leaf blowers for me. I want the exercise of wielding the rake. No mosquito whine of motor spoils the air, and gentle quiet goes unheard. I refuse to rake up the carpet of scarlet Japanese maple leaves - they are too glorious.
Holy Earth scattered with the tree's ash; old fire of life.
Couples whisper like young lovers strolling down my street. They pay homage to the town's best trees, which rule in my yard. Walkers look happy, like dating courtiers.
"What kind of tree is that?", a voice calls out behind me. I reply without looking up. "Magnolia." She's my prize, and beneath her is where I'm raking. Then I look up and see a woman pointing. "Oh, that one. Japanese maple." Luminous red, alas, yes, this is her season. Magnolia, magnificent and pungent in the spring when she displays her tulip-orchid flowers, she now only drops sad brown leaves. I love her no less. But Asia is the beauty contest winner of autumn, and commands all the attention: it is her turn now, her season.
No comments:
Post a Comment