The leaves on my maple start life in fragile shades of green.
They tentatively unfurl pale lime,
They grow toward summer.
Slick rubbery surfaces become verdant labs,
an alchemical mission marrying sun, dirt, and water from who knows where.
Some leaves are breezy cool;
blowing their rustle in bluish notes.
Some are robust and greedy.
The pale hide under the canopy.
The bold hang far out at the edge of things
edges crisp before their time.
And then the fall.
Oh, the fall…
Pale leaves turn incandescent –
They gather steam for a final run;
cycling from verdancy
to hot tomato red
and brilliant ruby.
They dance a holy conflagration,
a fire dance;
blazing tribute to the golden orb of life.
Till one-by-one they float down.
Leaving the ground a colorful mess,
and a wintery view to the sky.
Dedicated to The Chutney Chicks.