Once the leaves start their fiery finale, the branches won’t be able to hold onto them for long. Like a match that comes close to scorching the fingers that hold it, soon they too will drop to the ground, their momentary magnificence extinguished in the fall. The lofty glory of illumination is soon trodden by damp decay, by the rains and the frost and the worms of the earth. It is just a matter of time ~ it is always a matter of time.
And so the season shifts, bringing down the leaves that once hung so brightly in the sun. For an even briefer instant, they carpet the ground in color, blanketing the backyard in soft yellows and creamy golds. Soon enough they will turn brown, shriveling up into nothing, like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the East do beneath Dorothy’s house once her ruby slippers are removed.
