Being John Maple Leaf
The leaves are changing.
I enjoy observing the cherry trees, the liquid ambers and so on. Each with its own tints and scents. Merry piles of leaves that are someone else’s to deal with. Some of the trees are bare already, dark jagged arms pointing into the cold grey sky, making an early start on winter, while others in sheltered spots are defiant patches of green among the ocean of red and orange.
But the maple is depressing.
I find it so year-round. In spring, its little green buds are no joy in themselves. We only value them for the glowing embers they will later become. The same is so for the lush summer leaves. We are dissatisfied with these innocent green hues because that is not their purpose.
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