23 Apr

Leaves, always the flashy jewelry for trees. I bet they get resentful always being identified by the leaves that they wear, and that sometimes the oak and the maple trees switch clothes just to see if people notice.

Leaves leave tracks in the snow and mud, as completely as any other forest animal. You can track them–each tree throwing her leaves down like a drunken millionaire on a spree. When it gets windy though, the trees are miserly, holding to each leaf with a skeleton grasp so the wind has to rip it away.

Leaves have lines, just like the palm of the hand. Futures can be read here, though they tend to be of more whimsical sorts, the future lives of the inchworm, that sort of thing.

I always found it funny that Walt Whitman called his books Leaves of Grass, simply because I don’t think of grass as a leaf–or maybe its all leaf–the most economical tree ever made, a Picasso tree in miniature, simplified to point zero, sucked out of all dimension.

Leaves socialize and congregate, in corners, in drains, at the feet of trees. They like mixing together to see what happens. They are made to be one of a thousand others, meant to wander in flocks, made to pile up and accumulate, and stick together, and hold together, and never let go.

Even when they are postage stamp sized crumbles grey and formless–they will never let go.

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