A leaf

One year only, given,
For caressing rays to warm
Your silky skin.
One year to flutter and twist
And writhe in storm, and rain,
And snow.
Once you have, to fall
And present yourself-
A seam in the golden-red
Carpet of your fellows-
A death, surpassing
Beauty of your life,
And raising to untold
Heights of glory
The humble earth.


I wrote this about a week ago. The view from my window is incredible right now. There are golden branches, red shading, and left-over hints of green across the street from me, and I can't help but feel joyful and a little sad when I see such beauty. Joyful, because sometimes the tiniest, most insignifcant things can be so beautiful they make you ache, and sad because each leaf has to die before we even notice how lovely they are. We walk underneath them everyday, lay in their shade, and yet we don't even really see them until they aren't alive anymore. In fact, they look so beautiful carpeting the ground around my feet that I can't help but be glad that they had to die. I guess that's why I love fall so much. Everything about the season is reminding us of death: our own future death, the death of leaves, and flowers, and the realization that winter is a long season. But in what could be a horrible time of reminder we instead have the honor of glorious showers of golden, red, pink, yellow, and brown leaves all around us to remind us that it is only through death: death to ourselves and ultimately, the death of Christ that we have the most amazing priviledge of life.