A maple leaf floated to the ground from which it was born. Rich soil untouched by man or machine, alone in birth and alone in death. What purpose did a leaf serve as it grew into maturity, clinging to its union with the tree? It wasn't alone, as hundreds of others like itself grew and died with who knows how much time in between. I wonder what they felt as they changed from green to crimson and gold, and in that split second when their lifeline snapped, sending them down to lie together at the foot of the mighty tree. In time, their colors would fade into the ground and be forgotten until the snow gave way to a new generation of baby buds that held on tightly when the winds blew, and the rains pelted them; some were knocked down, while the strong survived to grow another day.
A maple tree fell in the forest today, a victim of God's light show, as lightning slammed into its trunk and fire burned into its very core. Some of the leaves were spared as they unhinged themselves on the way down, floating away from the destruction, while most went up in flames that would eventually become dust from which, in time, new growth would climb upward as a young sapling struggled to take the place of its ancestor. It took hundreds of years to become just another tree, surrounded by elders who had survived what nature threw their way for unknown years. They provided shade for the saplings and wrapped their limbs around them to protect them from the wind. Slowly, and with no one watching, the little maple became a strong, beautiful adult tree. Filled with countless leaves that would honor it with a parade of colors floating downward, some touching in a final goodbye as one by one they detached and floated back to the ground from which they came. And the cycle continued.
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