A mouth full of leaves

 

The pear tree is burning. Deep crimson, polished bronze and butter yellow leaves rustle and jostle against the little remaining green. It's a phoenix taking off, an exploding firework, a winter hearth piled with blazing logs. A miracle, a gift, right by our washing line.

But have I noticed? Barely. Instead, I saw dead leaves trekked into the loungeroom and sighed. Muddy footprints wandered the house; I groaned and grabbed the mop. I found my baby with a mouth full of leaves, and shrieked and tweaked them out. Leaves drift into the washing basket. They hide in the folds of the sheets on the line, and slide down the legs of trousers. I winkle them out one by one, and give the washing a good shake.

This morning I finally saw, really saw, the tree. I crept outside away from the kids to gaze at it in silence, to marvel and wonder. And found myself thinking about a broken light switch, a cracked ring, instead.

Earth blazes with heaven. We people of dust turn our eyes, suck our pens and write shopping lists.