As They Let Go Their Leaves

Now the mornings bring condensation along the edges of windowsills. Although the sun is hot on my face at the height of afternoon, I notice cool breezes. Evenings come sooner, and my longings return. I look for some indication among the maple trees. The ones that have suffered distress have already started. Their leaves are turning yellow and red. Some have fallen. They have fallen and started to curl, their edges are brown. I say to myself, "That tree is ill, that's why." I look to other maples still green, but I lie to myself, "It is the height of Summer, the skies are blue, It's sunny and warm." I try not to notice the traces of yellow found in even the healthy trees. The ones that have lost their leaves litter the ground. Winds arise and whisk their leaves away to who knows where, off to some corner with other debris, perhaps remembered by the trees, but forgotten by the world. There the leaves might dance a final dizzy waltz before they crumble utterly away. Inside me it's Summer still where nothing can touch it, perhaps a Summer not yet realized, that maples dream of as they lose their leaves and anticipate conceiving next year's buds at the tips of their branches, a Summer which one must once again surrender, and replace with hope for another time. When Winter comes naked branches, still alive, rattle in fierce gales. The branches wait out the cold dark days, the long bitter nights, because they understand that time will pass. They are accustomed to Winter, and have learned to endure it. Do maples hope? They know in their way that though there is a season when life is hard, when merely to exist at all is a struggle, another season will come. I look to the maples as they let go their leaves.