Again, I pulled from my book "642 Things to Write About." The prompt was "Write about a tree from the point of view of one of its leaves."
Here's what I got:
Curious Leaf.
I can't wait until fall. I hear about it, but I am not sure it even exists. I only know of one season since I was just a young bud on my branch and therefore so much of my life is pondering whether or not this season is real. The tree says to have faith, I will meet the fall. He says he's seen things I haven't, but I'm not so sure. How can I believe in something I have never witnessed myself? He says I will prefer the season I am in right now, but that's hard to believe. I am plagued with the mundane and crave excitement!
If there is another season, I can't wait. Every day, I am irritated by the leaves closest to me. They all seem so unified and content to be where they are. They believe the tree about the seasons and how they change. I ask them how and why they just believe, but they don't have a logical answer, which makes me feel confused and alone. I am not like the other leaves. I am tired of the same colors around me, they rejoice in them. And I am bored of seeing the same patch of sky, they honor it. I want to see the sun and moon from a different place, it's like they don't wonder what else is out there. I just don't want to be here anymore. Plus, if I have to hear one more stupid joke about nuts from the leaf next to me, you know, the leaf who has a big brown spot on his face? I am going to go insane.
Every day I beg the tree to ask the sky for a nice breeze to take me away so I can get away from these chattering, quivering, petals. All they do is sing about the sunshine and praise the rain. And every day, the tree tells me to appreciate the season I am in, that one day things will be different. He says soon it will be cold and I will die and I will be wishing for the greener days that are upon me in the present. Hmphhh. Ok, tree.
The other leaves call him the Giver of Life, which I suppose quite literally, he is. But he's also 300 years old. What does he know about being a leaf? He's a tree. He has roots that don't allow him to move. He is just stuck in his ways, the same way he is stuck in the ground. I want to fly! I want to fly far away from here! He doesn't know how I feel up here, stuck in this hell, stuck on a branch. A tree can't relate to a leaf, no matter how hard he tries. He says he knows what's best for me. And then I am annoyed. I want everyone to leave me alone while I wait.
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I began to turn orange, which was exciting. I had never seen such vibrant, different colors. But it did not last long, just as the tree had said. One time he said youth is wasted on the young and I believed at the time that he was just mad at his bark because it was so wrinkly and course. But as the days started getting colder and colder, I too began to look brown and ugly and I began to understand the tree. It seemed as if the tree had been telling the truth about it all, but I was too proud to tell him. Instead, I told him I loved the color brown and that it suited me.
Then one night, the wind blew so hard, I heard a snap. Before I could register what was happening, I felt myself soaring through the air with the wind under my belly, which was lovely. But it did not last long. The wind had had enough and down I came, never to be carried by the wind again. I have been raked over and over again and blown from here to there with no power over myself. I miss the old tree. I miss the leaves who have all been scattered in the wind. I can't fly because I am dependent on a breeze and I have no branch to anchor me to safety. I am stuck. The old tree was right. I should have appreciated the green season. I should have appreciated the rain, feeling the wind on my face, and the sun and the moon. I should have believed that the season would one day change.
Youth is most definitely wasted on the young.
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