Leaf Jumping
Leaves are the saddest among all of nature's beauties. Birthed in heights, grown in winds and maturing in rain, the papery shade-givers are a study in resilience and, ultimately, the unfairness of life. Storms intimidate while insects chew unprotected flesh. Every element comes upon them in alternate tenderness and fury. Those who prevail will age into splendor, reds and yellows bursting forth in survivor's triumph. As with any living thing the bottom of the circle is reached and bareness must come to the trees. The circle will only swing into an upturn with the next generation.
But there are those…
She wonders if some aren't enticed by the ground's promise of a different life. Early departure from the nest to a new world must seem exciting when all one sees is the untouchable depths, a place of movement, of activity. Still green, those that snatch their futures away from the umbilical cord are unaware that a harsh trampling of their swiftly drying bodies is all fate intends. They mustn't know that a quicker route to decay is the fulfillment of the ground's pledge. Some launch into air and float toward destiny, surely pleased at their bravery. And the brethren who remain in relative safety can only look on at the foolishness of youth for they will never display their colors.
But for every motive, there is a contrasting reason to achieve decisive, even painful change. And from her place under the largest tree in Boston, she considers that other leaves are simply tired of the view. Tired of the effort of combating opposing forces. Perhaps some will leap, not of ignorance, but rather willingly let go of mother branch's hand and plummeting to the surface below. Because the lofty life grows stale and the fighters of wind and rain and sun and time grow weary. And she understands. There are moments when, in the absence of something more to know, jumping seems a respectable way to conclude the circle. On that purposeful float downward, they may be more alive than when they suckled from the tree. Joining the autumn blanket of the earth, a community of the dying mingles with her limbs as she waits.
Casting an earnest eye to the canopy, she tries to determine which she will resemble; the imprudent ones who throw themselves into the unknown, the indifferent ones who give up the battle or the importunate ones who look to the journey as reason enough to cling until there is no color left to show. Can she wait patiently for her own eruption of splendor? Who is to say which path is right when each could claim advantage equal to harm. But on this day, under this tree, the foolish can attest to that one moment of joyful abandon that she'd jump from any height to experience.
And if it wasn't for the skirt, she'd be climbing.