Saturday

Shining Gold



The bleached leaves of poplar trees down by the river shining gold and silver twist and turn in the smallest winds.  It would almost seem they are eager for that final free flight.  Done with the branch, done with the limb...free.  By my human-made clock and metric standard the flight seems brief but who knows the truth of that?

What falseness there is in brevity's power to diminish experience. Ecstasy, by it's very nature, dismisses the tick, the tock.  Timelessness is part of awe, of epiphany, of orgasmn.  Why should it not be so for the leaf's fall as well?  Endless the distance between treetop and ground.  The abstraction of natural time and distance into human time and distance requires a standard of measure and what leaf would care for that? Not the poplar, not the maple, not the oak.