The fresh green of leaves awoken to the light of the sun, isn’t that one of the most wonderful things you can ever see? A common wonder, by each spring and summer multiplied, not bound to a specific place or time.
Flowers usually get all the exclamation marks, but I like to think of myself as a leafy person.
Airy leaves waving gently in the sunlight, as if stirred to life by the breeze. That’s my definition of nature being kind to me and tolerant of my existence.
Lively, delicate, patient, wise–these leaves are all of that and other words we have not invented yet.
Lifting your gaze from your book to look at them brings comfort. If you look closely, none of them are perfect.
They don’t have the intimacy or colors of flowers. But they share with the sun a secret that petals don’t know.
I find in sunny leaves all answers, all questions, calm, quiet, the easy lightness of being, the multitudes of Whitman and Dylan and all the other poets.
I am a shadowy person, perhaps this is why these leaves appear so precious to me.
Autumn doesn’t think half as kindly of them.
But summer seems to nod to me, and the sky nods, and the clouds nod, even they, and perhaps you nod, too…