When I walk out of my front door, I can see a tree at the top of a little hill. Having lived in this house for 21 years, I have watched it grow and change through the years. In the spring, the leaves start to fill in, blocking the afternoon sun from my front window. In the summer, more often than not, there are little children dangling from the branches, dropping to the ground and rolling down the hill. In the winter, the branches dance in the wind, creating shadows on the ground below.
But in the fall, the tree is at it's finest. The leaves start to turn with a bright orange and red glow and for a few short days, the tree seems to shine with an inner light. As the winds begin to blow, the leaves let go of their delicate connection and drift down the hill. And before you know it, the tree is bare once again, gently waving in the wind, waiting for the snow, waiting for the ice and waiting once again for the tiny green leaves.
2 comments:
The other day Halina said, "Which state has the most leaves." I said, "Tennesse has lots of leaves." She responded, "Let's live there."
Yes, we like trees, too.
I mean, she said, "Which state has the most leaves?"
Yes, we are familiar with the four types of sentences and their proper punctuation . . .
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