In our mix of seasons overlapping in the American South, I’ve written recently about my fascination of it as an observer, contemplator, photographer, and writer. In revisiting an earlier photographed corner of my yard, I noticed this morning that the last of Autumn is finally giving way to Spring. And of course, I saw the exquisite beauty and story beneath…

I wonder if other souls like mine see the stories I so naturally do, in every detail of nature. If so, I wonder what the commonality is, the soul feature that is so susceptible to falling so still, getting so moved, by the normally unseen that so many are blind to. Mindfulness perhaps the trendy term. But before that, I’ve always heard the whispers.

Is it a trait shared by photographers? Poets? Believers? In any case, I can’t imagine not having the connections I do, to every leaf, every cloud, every wild bloom (the next post…).

This morning, another love story found its way into my frame. To most, just two leaves. To me, a wordless tale of the most profound and tender beauty…

A leaf drying up,
weathered by time.
Its thirst I feel.
Its veins taking in
all that it can
to simply get by,
for a while longer,
survive.
Against a cloudy sky.

A love found,
a desperate grasp,
a clinging
to each other,
a tear
of relief,
perhaps
the last.

Her colors
fading too,
yet she offers
her final
burst of brights,
and the selfless act
renews,
fills them both
with new life.

Together, they reach
for their together dream,
and when they fall,
it will now be in love,
and as one, they will land
and embrace
the next unknown,
together spend
each future season
where seasons have no
end…

And that’s what I see in the leaves in my lens.