In hands cupped and raised, a trophy of my own making, rest leaves of pumpkin-cranberry-chocolate swirl; a sundae in the park.
There is a light, a playful light that comes to heart of tiny rain kissed leaves and raises them far beyond the status of the cold cut gem.
Every warm colour of my ballerina dreams dances in upon the wind, dances in as autumnal leaves.
The autumn comes as a gospel choir, harmonised in such a way that celebrates each hue and shows how they belong together.
The leaves of the elder tree are as the most ancient of green eyes, open to the sunny rays - each so bold and shy, glossy and humble, as only nature can be.
The garden was lined with a beech hedgerow, deeper than my own wing span, arms stretched wide. In it nested a community of birds, taking shelter in it and doubtless finding much food there too. Yet that hedge waited until early May to become full green, to take on that verdant clothing, uncurling those leaves as if they each were a hymn sheet of heaven.
The leaves were green arrow heads, as translucent as the finest paper, their stems quills that waved in the warm summer air. How they came together, wind and foliage, neither taking, yet both giving and receiving just the same, both an intrinsic part of "the now."
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