Every October, leaves fall. They say sayonara, hasta luego, auf wiedershen, so long suckers! as they pop their stems and glide like little puffs from heaven. Only the joke's on them--after landing there is only a slow transition to sepia-crackle, and the extra-wide ("clog free!") green tine plastic rake.
Clumping in corners, dying of thirst, the leaves beg forgiveness for fetish-ising the moist ground below, idealizing their appetite flight to destruction. There is no such forgiveness in the calendar, the winter comes just as planned. Beyond Indian summer and the October reprieves (with the sun so strong and summery), there are only shorter days and falling temps.
The leaves die. Yea, in a blaze of.
The final kaleidoscopic montage of glory, a freedom beyond spring's imagination. Crimson combinations, yellow poetics, green dialectics and orange you glad you have eyes? All the color of life right beside dear death.
The declaration of the wild-eyed stone true prophet of paradox: only the fantastical routine reminds us that trees are miracles; only in death do we know life.
In and around Cleveland there are Sugar Maples and Oaks and Elms and other Maples in the Metroparks and in Cuyahoga Valley and beyond Bedford and proximate to Parma. Even refugee suburban clusters testifying against clear-cut desires.
In my front yard there is a fire, and the tree tops burn color beyond recognition. Mon Dieu, this sight!
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