The Language of Leaves
Leaves, those quiet, trembling poems that appear with each spring and fall with
each autumn, are teachers in the art of becoming and unbecoming. Their short
lives offer a glimpse into the delicate threshold between form and formlessness.
They are language without words, expressions of beauty that say, “I am here,
only for a moment.” And in that moment, they give themselves to light, to wind,
to earth.
We are, in so many ways, like these leaves—held briefly, made visible, only to pass
once more into what we cannot see. And there is a beauty in this fleetingness, a soft
way of being in the world that honours each moment as a complete offering,
complete not in its perfection but in its willingness to disappear.