I looked out of window at the old ash, still covered in myriad of leaves, and felt a green envy rising in my non-chlorophyllic heart. Why can’t I grow leaves to convert the sun’s light into sugar and energy, I asked the ash voicelessly. “Because, you haven’t got branches, twigs and twiglets where they could attach themselves,” he responded grumpily. That could be arranged, I thought, and decided to grow a bunch of leaves on me every day. I am aware that I have chosen the wrong season of the year because, instead of wrapping myself in a green mantle I will have to accept a fashionably autumnal coat of many colours. This year a mix of darker hues may, in fact, better represent the palette of my rather sombre moods and whims. Did I hear you say that I am fantasizing or raving under the influence of shamanic diet of sacred mushrooms? If you really think that, you are obviously stuck in the quicksands of what is wittily called the real world. I live in the virtual dimensions where everything is possible, because nothing is as we imagine it to be. The leafage is every tree’s own vocabulary. Every leaf is a word and all of them is the speech of the tree. In every season of the year their idiom changes its colour: delicate green of their spring revival; darker colours of their courting time and then the poetically colourful melancholy of their autumnal days. They close their Yearbook before the dreaming time arrives and let the wind scatter their words to give the earth her dues.Words are my leaves, so I am also a tree of a different species. But I write a blog which allows me to remain evergreen. The trees have logs, but they are only for burning on the autumnal bonfires. ~“KI
