‘When the leaves wither, crusty and brown,
They code a special history in them,
The seasons of the day, the secrets of the night,
And the conversations of the wild.’
‘The murmuring of the earth,
As they rest on her wet and raw soil,
The busy bees and the buzzing queens,
The fluttering wings of a firefly.’
The exact time when they change colour,
From green to yellow to pink,
From the hummingbird to a large eagle,
And the tea parties under its wings.’
‘All this is coded painstakingly one by one,
Into the dried seasonal leaves,
The gentle swish and the rustling of the tree tops,
Carefully recorded for the wise to read.’
‘Who is the wise?’ I asked,
The age-old majestic tree,
‘The one who knows to slow down,
To notice the withered leaves.’’