There's a tree that I notice every morning, because it takes pity on me. During the autumn days it murders its chlorophyll for me and lets its cadaver leaves turn red and yellow.
Because it knows that I'd prefer it, this tree will let those crisp leaves fly – although there is no breeze to lead them on a wintry dance. And when they reach the ground, they weave a starry carpet for me to walk on.
This sympathetic tree colors itself cranberry, pumpkin, ginger and cinnamon – the scents of a harvest kitchen. It must be difficult – and a little heart-breaking – to voluntarily drain the life out of its green blood, but I find its efforts rather touching. It stands alone amongst its vibrant neighbors and is not ashamed to lift its rebellious head to the censorious sun.
There is much that this tree has sacrificed: the living filigree of veins in its arms and fingers, the web of nerves in every limb – enabling it to feel every creature that visited its arboreal dark – the shine of perennial youth. All this it relinquished so that I could imagine its life on chilly acreages and forget the audacious growh all around me.