The diamond-studded grass crunches under my feet this morning. A few cotton wisps feather across the cerulean sky. And I am standing in golden confetti rain.
The trees are letting go.
I struggle for words to describe what I see and hear.
Riffle. Ruffle. Whoosh.
Pitter. Patter. Plop. Plop.
Tumble. Twirl. Float. Flop.
It strikes me as ironic that the colder I get, the more I wear, the more I weigh.
But the colder hardwoods get, the less they wear, the less they weigh.
I pull out the sweaters, pack on the layers, curl into myself.
They strip bare. And stand tall and naked.
I feel the need to lie down under the tree in the front yard. I hold my camera aloft so those in passing cars don’t stop to offer assistance or call 911. The leaves brush my cheeks and cling to my hair. I note how they nestle in the crooks of the branches, and I contemplate the calluses that surround the pruning scars.
(Later I read that trees never heal from hurt. They can’t replace injured tissue, but they are capable of isolating it from healthy wood.)
I ponder this letting go, this stripping, this nakedness. And I realize that the light shines brighter because of it.
Celebrating On, In and Around Mondays with L.L. Barkat at Seedlings in Stone.