Everything Made New Again

Tonight is the windiest night of the year. Our home is locked tight, doors and windows and shutters, but gusty fingers pry their way into the smallest cracks. The chimes which hang on our front porch play a constant A minor, more winter-warning than summer-song.

The leftover leaves, the yellow- and red- and orange-turned-brown, have lost their grips and are tumbling into a wispy maelstrom, miles from home, months from belonging. Yet, despite this chaos, this ordained destruction, in some last conscious effort never perceived by my schedule, my binge-watching, or my quest for shade-grown espresso, each leaf cries out to return to branch and trunk and root, to feel sun and drink water, to go back to the beginning, when everything was green and full of flowers and fruit.

When everything was new.

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