I’m moved by the trees that green until the end, not embracing pretty change, not tempting human folk with brilliance. There is something soothing in a constant, unhampered presence. It is a reminder that nature isn’t offering her colors for us.
Not for the Volvos and Subarus with DVD players facing the backseat, not for the drivers who comment from Route 30 as they pass the grove of maples. Nature offers her colors for the maples themselves, maples who will feel the sweep of nature’s own tuck-in, a gentle breeze after midnight, when most of the cars have gone and darkness saves the trees from the roadside assessment of their looks.
The green ones, I suppose, protect themselves from this most naturally. And in the end, they drop their leaves too. Letting go at a later moment, when the time is right for a nearly meditative release. For each and every leaf there is that moment, the let-go, the ballet-fall, the most silent landing. Human folks don’t witness most of these moments. They are private, no matter the color. The most gentle collision a soul could hope for.
Their release doesn’t pause the watercolor blue sky — as clear as ever, drawn upon in sketch by the grey of branches and the nursery of nature’s energy waiting for spring. For green again.