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Deciduous December

Trees shrug off old and worn out leaves. It is not, however, any rejection of the now-so-insignificant, but rather an acceptance of the transition. It is a farewell to the departing. It is that sad beauty of letting go of the things without any grimace. Melancholy, after all, is a meditation of the soul.

 Those leaves that are destined to dry and wither aren't sorrowful either. They sun-dance in the winds. They celebrate their transformation into stardust. What is more beautiful than a yellow leaf, seemingly lifeless yet drunk with rejoice, sweeping across landscapes? What is more beautiful than going away with a belonging that nothing can take away?

 Await we all like deciduous trees in the winters of our lives. To be taken by the hope of unseen springs.

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