Pulling off gloves, anchoring the rake in crook of an elbow while inspecting palms for blisters, I wonder. Are they like snowflakes? No two, quite alike, in color or form as they each, one by one let go of their branch to slowly see-saw down onto frost covered grass. From the pale green unfurling in spring to the rusty-orange brown drifting down of fall. Do they mourn the short season of their existence? Watching the spiraling circle of smoke as it rises skyward from the multi-hued leaf pile licked by flame. I ponder to myself... Ancient oaks trees live for long stretches of time. But what of these fragile summer offerings. that year after year give up their beauty of sight, and sound to end up in smoke, or piled against tree roots, and fence corners or some never-ending wind blown skittering across the cold, cold ground. Pulling gloves on once again, bending back to the task at hand I sigh, ask myself, does the tree wonder about me? Should I be mourning my short existence, like these elegant, yet fragile, smoldering, autumn leaves? Yvonne Zanilah © Oct 30, 2012