The tree lets go of its leaves,
not because it wishes to,
but because the seasons demand sacrifice.
Each leaf falls like a memory,
crisp and trembling,
the last fragments of a childhood
no one asked to end.
The branches stand bare,
exposed to a sky that offers
neither warmth nor apology.
It is the same with us
we learn to unclasp innocence
far earlier than we should,
because the world insists
we trade softness for steel.
In the silence between roots and stars,
the tree teaches us the hardest truth
growth is not the gaining of more,
but the art of surrender.
We too are forced to shed
our laughter, our naïve certainties,
our faith that love will always stay.
And yet
beneath the barren skin of bark,
sap still pulses like unsung hope.
Within us too, though hollowed by expectation,
something whispers of spring,
of a return, of a becoming.
Maturity is not the end of the tree
nor the end of us
only the courage
to survive winter
and still believe
in green.
October, 2025
