I just launched my third video poem over on our YouTube page. Go check it out and tell me what you think. Like and subscribe for more content.
A tree was standing upon the hill and from that tree fell leafs in groups of three. Each leaf started green and full. Its color so shamelessly smooth it could easily be mistaken for a canvas of a single color. But as they lay to rest upon that hillside they twisted and turned, compressed into weird and unnerving shapes.
Their color faded and became splattered with occasional dark spots, wrinkles and veins running across their body. The smell of summer turned bitter and was quickly replaced with the pungent taste of dirt. Of rotting wood, of leafs that were to lose themselves upon the earth and become part of the forest floor.
Trees would take millennia before closing their eyes on the surface but leafs get a year if they are lucky. Every leaf is born in the high branches and dies in the dark mud. And in your hand they will fold their length like paper, and in nothing but a tiny second of relative time they will turn to become brittle and crunchy, cringing and dissolving in your hand like they have come to find it hard to stick together. These are the lives of branch children. These are leafs, how short-lived as they may be.
There are only so many things that can be said about a dying tree, and of its children even less but one is not to forget the way in which it lives its life. For all things come to pass and time will have no excuse. If art is the manifestation of emotions surely life by extent is a collections of the moments that we make. How then does the dying leaf make sense of the world in which it lives when it’s only to experience its season once? When everything they have ever known is new, and then gone.
Maybe we are all hanging from a tree waiting to turn to food for a new generation of forest.
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