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it is august first and i am worried about the leaves. they’ve lived through countless augusts, as have i, and we know that august is the beginning of a goodbye. the band of cicadas still sings, but they know this party is almost over. we, the last dancers, will pretend we don’t hear the soft clinks of Time collecting its finery. we’ll just dance until we’re dragged out of summer kicking and screaming, “but we’re not yet done with the warmth! we’re not done with the sun! we’re not ready for us living things to end!” and Time, that bastard, will say to us, “yes, this must end, but you will not.” Time is an optimist, because it must be, but i am not.
it is september first and i promise, i can hear the leaves whispering. they yearn for the sweet pressure of heat weighing them down, not the success of photosynthesising. they need to remember how the breeze felt combing through the base of their every branch. we were too busy fluttering about how it will all end, end, end and now our memories are rain slipping between our stems, our fingers. i stay up with them begging the moon to bring back the sun for a second chance, then wake to them arguing with the morning clouds. how can i judge the cycle they’re trapped in, when it’s us trapped together.
it is october first and the leaves mumble, “why should we fight when our fate is not for us to decide?” so with each glorious descent, there is a sigh and i join their hushed prayer to Time. please, let the soil mature us past some feathery, sensitive thing. in the spring, might we grow back strong and brave and alive? Time, please be merciful, grant us more of your abundance, we know now that we can truly live. before they touch the ground, Time will have already made its decision.
it will be april first when the leaves grow back and we cannot hide from the sun any longer. it will ascend from the skyline with a brilliant warmth to defrost our fate, chanting “to begin and begin and begin again.”