I been lookin’ at this tree
all summer
and
the leaves was always green
and
all the leaves was on it
and
the leaves was soft and like, um, rubberish
and
now the leaves changed colors
and
all the leaves is fallin’
and
the leaves is hard and, um, crunchy.
Did the leaves get in time out?
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This lane of ever-changing trees is overwhelming.
I have thought we are all evergreens
and
that’s just who we were.
But, apparently, we are deciduous.
We change
right before we die,
during dying,
when we’re almost not living. . .
Our true colors can be seen
and there’s no going back.
I’ll grow back?
Sure—
just as a different leaf
on the same tree.
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Sure, stare at me now
when I’m wrinkled and old.
You people are so sinister.
What’s the word?
Schadenfreude.
Yeah, schadenfreude.
Pleasure from my pain. . .
Well, guess what?
It doesn’t hurt;
I am not in pain;
I am not dying.
Just losing my hair.
Sure, stare at me now.
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Chlorophyll,
carotenoid,
anthocyanin.
Dirt.
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A month
another,
two—
a definite change of you.
You morph and change
through the night;
in storms you hold up
through the fight.
You die a lively death.
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Quick!—my loves,
our roof is ripping away.
One by one the shingles fall
and reveal skies of grey.
Evacuate!—and leave our home
and take flight in the air.
Our privacy’s gone and the chill rushes through
but Mother Nature doesn’t care.
Oh!—little ones you must now learn
the challenges of the seasons;
this lovely tree we know and love
lingers on this line of life and asks to live—with reasons
So hurry up
and
scuttle out
and
take to the skies!
C’mon.
No jokes.
I promise you,
This isn’t no surprise.
Lively, Dying Trees
Gabriel Weaver