Dust

Just a speck of dust
It has no colour in its life
It is bleached by the wind of despair
Which has forever picked it up
Blown it around and around
Then it blows it far away from where it is
Yet it is always there
Never moving, never growing
But it grows to love its place
For that's where it will always be
Just a speck of dust.

Fall colour

A myriad of different colours are alive in the tree outside my window.  Yes, it’s fall here, and the trees are “alive” with leaves that are preparing to die, leaving the naked trunk to hibernate through another upcoming, dreary winter.  Sometimes I wonder if the tree understands the cruelness of its situation.  Thousands of outdoor enthusiasts travel to remote wooded areas, lakes and ponds otherwise left in silent solitude, yearning to see trees in all their splendid fall foliage.  Yes, they want to be witness to nature in all its glory.  Yet, the tree, is markedly at its weakest.  In the winter, the tree is expected to stand naked, exposed to the harshest elements one can imagine.  Without a dressing of leaves to protect it from wind, ice, or snow, and no birds or wildlife to provide it company.  Yet, there it is.  Rooted, swaying, breathing in and out, fighting each day for its survival.  Then comes spring, the glorious, magical season when life springs anew.  In a matter of days, these cold, naked trunks take action and recoat themselves in buds and leaves, preparing for another long summer of work.  Even in the spring, working so hard to make up for the growth time it lost in the winter, people will stop to marvel at the blossoms on the few trees that will bear fruit that year, still ignoring the tree itself.  As spring moves to summer, the trees reach their most productive state.  Processing carbon dioxide and creating oxygen, making our earth the truly habitable place that it is.  Yet still, most will pay them no heed.  Only the arrival of fall attracts the attention of the masses.  Here, having provided all they could, now preparing to hibernate for another harsh winter, they begin to weaken.  As days turn into longer nights and leaves have less access to the sun, their sugar dwindles and energy fades, leaving a glorious wave of colour visible to any and all who dare look around.  Only then, and only for a matter of days, is the glory of the tree truly celebrated.  After a year of suffering, toiling, producing, and growth, it has a quick glimpse at glory.  Then, it’s colour will be gone, and it will be forgotten, again.