As a gentle breeze blew through the branches of the tree, I saw it lift you for a moment before you began your downward journey.
At first you seemed to hang in mid-air. Then, as if dancing, you continued on your path to the ground, swirling sideways, farther and farther from your mother tree. You landed on the blanket of fallen leaves that preceded you and rolled over once, twice, three times before settling on your back.
All afternoon as I gathered you up with your brothers and sisters, I thought about you. It's as if you came to teach me something about living. We have a lot in common, you and me; from dust were we made and dust we shall be.
I remember the season when you were born. The branch of the tree was heavy with bulging buds on that warm spring day. As I worked in the yard beneath you, I'd look up and observe your development. Your dark green color was a welcome sign after the long, cold winter.
Real signs of your strength and maturity came when dark clouds formed in the western sky and a powerful wind began to blow. Although you danced furiously, you clung to your branch and did not let go.
On hot summer days, I'd sit underneath your cool shade. Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated your protection from the sun?
Sometimes in late evening, if I found it difficult to sleep, I'd see you bathing in the moonlight. You seemed so calm and lovely, silhouetted against the sky.
As summer began to slip away, I noticed your color begin to fade to a paler hue of green.
Then you entered the autumn of your life and showed your true colors, as did your neighbors. I was happy to enjoy your unique and vibrant nature.
Then one day, you floated to the ground. I picked you up and saw for the first time the scars from your life - a few little holes here and there, marks of the challenges you faced. Here we lived so close to one another, but I wasn't aware of all your struggles.
When spring returns, I'll mix you with the soil. You'll bring life and vitality to my gardens. Those who pass by will not know of the contributions you made. But I will know, and you will be living again.
