Witty Repartee, Doofus of the grandest kind. (yrael) wrote in thejoysoflife_i,
Witty Repartee, Doofus of the grandest kind.
yrael
thejoysoflife_i

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It's Fall.

It is Fall, bordering on the brink of Winter. It's the calm before the start of the most sentimental season, but Autumn has it's own unique characteristics as well.

Now, the leaves change, the weather is unpredictable, and the skies range from stormy greys to elaborate sunsets.

This season's challenge is to write about something or someone you have taken for granted, but have found your love for it/him/her renewed by the everchanging light in our horizon

Here's my contribution:

In my backyard, my father grew many plants and trees, aspiring to create a gorgeous garden to visit during the hot summers. From tall, thin evergreens, to the twineing grape vine, it was idealistic for summer barbeques and festivities. The labor of digging holes and watering them was nothing compared to the fun had out in the sun.

However, how could these plants provide shade and comfort from the scorching sunrays?

The piece-de-resistance was a large weeping willow tree, planted from before the years my family began to inhabit the house. Its canopy hid birds, various children's pets, and even children from time to time. Its branches (for no inanimate thing ever had pain back then), was used for the wars between and my siblings, fighting for shade supremacy.

Our days were bright and happy, under its boughs; there was nothing we could have thought of to make it better.

Tragedy struck, however cliche that is.

One never really recognizes evil. It's a substance that comes in the dark of night and steals away in the form of your most trusted. And who can properly fill that position other than our own entity?

It began as moisture in the tree and general organism, not uncommon to the outside world. Invisible, it enters the cracks and bores of trees and festers there in a viral manner, cold and selfish. The willow was rotting, and its potential to fall and break children is not a favorable outcome.

It's removal left the yard a yellow desert, compared to the lush greens and white threads of light that pulled through the leaves. Where was its hospitality? Where was the dependable coolness we could find in the brazen heat? Gone.

We planted another tree there, as renewals beg to do, a Purple Leafed tree, much like the very same street name we resided on. Thin and short, I couldn't imagine this shrubery to grow anything like it's great predecessor. Never the less, I watered it for a few years, with an absorbatant amount of water, in hopes that it could shelter, at least, me.

Life struck, however, and my life began to demand my attention indoors, where artificial lights and colors are more welcome than the father sun of our childhood. All I could see of the tree's progress was the violet leaves framed in my window. I looked out often, day dreaming of visiting and creating a new bond.
Framed in this window, however, was a paltry rendition of the outside world. It's frame masked the brilliance and patience of the tree.

I pulled myself out to the backyard, one day, endeavoring to enjoy the sun, not to cook or water the other numerous plants about. Never was I so awed. The height of the dear sapling we had planted had reached higher than the electrical lines lining the streets. It's immensity was greater than I even tried to envision it.

It blossoms, during the spring, grows robust leaves in the summer, loses them in the fall, and awaits the spring during the winter.

Yet, for it's character to be noticed only now...?

Blossoms of a Purple leaf tree


Fall is a sentimental season...
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