Leaf in the Wind

As the wind blows in the west

And trees grow up in a sunny glow

On dark paths, though I tread

I shall return to Thee, my Lord

                 Far off in the distant hills, where now travelers seldom journey, there grows a mighty oak tree, a pillar sticking out against its surroundings of grass and sage. A wash rolls next to the oak in early spring, but quietly disappears as the hot sun of summer dries the mostly exposed earth.

                Through some miracle of nature, one year when the rains and sun were just right, somehow the oak seed managed to take root in the wet soil while water was still abundant, and began its great journey of life, which began with no man recording it, and has lasted longer than for any man to note its end.

                One bright, glowing spring, the tree emerged from its winter slumber, with sprouts of green leafs coming forth at every angle and on every branch to soak in the warm bath of sunlight.

                They grew quickly in the idealistic conditions, all eager to enjoy the plenty the sun had to offer. They felt the glow and enjoyed the tingle of the wind rustling between them, with the companionship of hundreds of other leaves talking and moving around them. It truly was a bustling spring, with all sorts of life in the air, unfolding as a sublime dance in the sky and earth, tree, grass, and water.

                Yet there was one leaf which opened slowly and weak. When he finally emerged, he was curved and did not move easily in the wind like the others, but he kept growing and straightening. Soon, he stretched the tips of his green veins to their full length and could bath fully in the sunlight. He had missed some of the most radiant days of spring, but was determined to enjoy it no less. Perched near the top of the tree, he could see far the grasses making their wistful patterns in the evening wind, and the water tumbling in its dynamic formations. At his height the stronger winds allowed him to flip and flutter with more eagerness than all those around him.

                Leafs near enjoyed his company and good-nature, and they played and danced together. One leaf, that was slightly below and easily visible by him, particularly enjoyed his constant motion, and together they flickered sun towards each other in a golden dance of rays.

                Quickly though, the liveliness of spring swept into the dryness of summer, and some leaves wearied of the golden sun and windy dance. Some even fell quietly to the ground, leaving the sun and wind for the cooler, shade-filled ground.

                But not the leaf near the top of the tree. He still bathed in the sun and loved to dance. Some of his friends were gone, but most stayed. They did not dance as much as he, but once in a while, when the wind was just right, he could get them to. And the leaf just below, his favorite, still flickered back messages in the resplendent sun, and together they made music of light and green.

                The months rolled on and with each new summer day, more leaves dried and fell. When a rainstorm finally did come, it was not the exciting time as before, but a drudgery to be past. Except for a few, like the leaf at the top for the tree, who swayed gleefully with each new drop.

                But the rains grew colder and nights longer and leaves began to change color more and with each change of color, more drifted gracefully to join the others on the grassy ground. Soon most all his friends had left, and one day, even his friend just below made a last glimmer of her now yellow surface, then broke off, going back and forth in the air, as if waving an unwilling farewell to the friend above, and finally landing, joining old friends on the soft earth.

                He almost fell as well, in an attempt to catch that last joyous beam, to try and hold on to that brilliant glimpse which seemed so deeply burned into him. But he couldn’t. He didn’t. He held on, whirling in the wind.
                In the early evenings, though much colder, the wind spiraled around his now dry, and yellow-brown self, and for a moment he remembered those few spring days when the beautiful beams of the sun and moon glimmered and the warmth and light of life all around filled the grasses and the air completely.

                Then the wind would stop, night filled the atmosphere, and the chill air enveloped him. The memories of moments before would fade into the darkness of night.

                Shortly, snow fell and the few remaining leaves fell with it. Still the leaf near the top of the tree held on, the lone leaf, in a lone tree in a gray field of white. He saw his friends on the distant ground, including his golden friend, just before the snow comforter covered them.

                The snow piled high, and continued to stack up, yet the leaf held firm in the tree in the cold stale air.

                One day a traveler, rare as they are, walked over the small snow-covered hill where the oak tree stood. Looking up into the tree he thought to himself how curious that one leaf alone stood in the top of the tree. Though the man was tired, cold, and eager to return to his distant cabin, the peculiarity of the situation pushed him to take some snow in his hands, form it into a ball, and direct it toward the top of the tree.

                Flying just past the lone leaf, it made the stale air rush around him, and for a moment, the warmth and excitement of the event caused him to remember vague distant memories of sunbeams, dancing grasses, running water, and a leaf flickering back golden beams at him. The emotion and happiness of days gone by engulfed him as he broke from his perch and glided down onto the white plainness below. There he landed as one dark spot on the white background. All his friends feet below, he was alone, cold, and dead in a field of white.

                The traveler was about to trudge on to his cabin before night fell, but looked to the leaf and felt he could almost hear it mumbling a cry to itself, “I cannot ask you for anything, for what am I to you, but I am cold and alone, and impossibly distant from all I have ever known and loved sitting alone in this cold wasteland, because of my desire to dance in the wind.

                The traveler, half smiling, for hearing what perhaps was not there, turned quietly and moved meaningfully towards the lone dark dot. And though the air was getting colder, and the night was settling fast, the man pulled from his pack a small shovel, and began to dig into the pack of snow. Once his hole reached the earth, where grasses and leafs and water had already begun to melt together to create nutrients for new life, the man put the leaf quietly into his hands, looked at it with a smile that showed overwhelming covering sadness and disappointment, then dropped the leaf into the bottom of the hole. The hole was covered, and the traveler hurried on his way.

                The leaf in the wind now lay silently, under the white blanket, finally at peace.
                Standing quietly and firmly in the field, the oak tree still stands out from its surroundings of white, resilient despite sometimes harsh conditions, and grows from the nutrients of the leaves and grasses dancing together with earth and water, just beneath the snow. 

“To everything there is a season,

A time to every purpose under the heaven…

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance…”

-Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 4