In the Autumn, when the veins of the trees go dead in preparation of the cold winter, as they retreat from within and pool their sap, the little, thin, fleshy leaves drop their microcosms to the Earth. Luckily, they are pulled there by gravity and forces unknown, because, so brilliantly beautiful as all of their unique, individual living universes are in the prettiest of colors, still vacantly alive somehow as they independently live on their garnished life force, falling to the ground and settling and eventually disintegrating into the cosmos as if the universe itself ripped it apart and desired what it could grasp, they are some kind of temporary thing. Maybe the living leaf, compartmentalized in organization and hierarchy is redirected to dimensions, math, and parts unknown, to be recreated and eventually born again.
We are dazzled by them, dazzled by the whole stuff of life, pinwheel stars spinning in our mind’s eye as we contemplate the things of which we are wrought. Chalk outlines on the appeasement of nature in our memory. I state this case to you plainly, so that you may see that we are alive, not dead, yet one day we will fade into the echoes, as it were, so let’s you or I live and be pretty or beautiful for monsters we cannot even comprehend, to be recreated and eventually born again, leaving behind ne’er a whisper in all the seasons past. The leaf, it fades or not, all these changes, permutations and redirects of living matrices tells us that this living force of which we share and are of a part, set against the enormity of a black void in which exists nothing else recognizable as life, let’s you or I hope for something better.