Gently to my right, then my left,
over this way and that,
the brown leaf rode the invisible air.
Westward, then that and downward it slowly moved
until it came to rest amid
the blades of green
and the seed-bearing cones.
Pausing to acknowledge its journey, I knelt on rock and soil.
Packed clay and sharp stones greeted my middle-aged knees
as I thanked the brittle leaf
for the joy it had given me as
hope bloomed in emerging spring.
I eulogized the formerly green one
that had cooled me in its summer shade.
I bid farewell as it embraced its journey
toward becoming nourishment for the seeds of cones,
and the acorns of its descendants.
Our paths intersected, in the moment that autumn began,
the brittle one and I,
and diverged again as our journeys continued.
There’s a way in which my adult son Isaac and I are different. I tend to err on the side of more color in my attire. He tends to err on a more subdued color scheme. We recently had a Facebook discussion in which we discussed our very different perspective on the appropriate color of his childhood home. He told me that he was embarrassed by the bright, warm yellow (with green trim) that we painted our 1850s historic home we owned in upstate New York.
Yes, I like color! I’m wearing a lavender shirt as I write this post. I have a bright yellow sweater. I wear bold stripes especially in the winter months. My ties have been known to be dramatic. For me, having a yellow house was inspired by a 1970s Barbara Streisand song, Everything. In the song she lists things she’d like to do; my favorite is, “Move into the White House, paint it yellow.”
For me, color reflects the magnificence of the season of new creation: spring. The flowers are dressed in a vibrant spectrum of colors. It’s as if they are giggling and laughing at winter and its endless greys. That is why I am particularly fond of the Grey & Sun Wind and Solar building in the small town in which I live. I can see it from my office window. Even on the dreariest of days it shines bright. It giggles and laughs at winter reminding me that to everything there is a season (Ecclesiastes 3). Spring always returns.