My Tree

There is a tree across the street, in the park, that has been keeping track of time for me since I've been here. He is a large tree, one who has witnessed many things I should think, his arms seeming to span the length of an entire block. When I first arrived here, he was green and full, shading the picnic-ers and fetching dogs. I think I sat beneath him once or twice then, to phone a friend or read a book.
Around mid-September he started to change color, the tips of his green leaves turning golden. Not all of them. Just a few. I think I will try to remember how he wore his age with confidence when I begin to notice the colors changing on my own head. I liked walking past him then. He made me remember to notice the world.
A few weeks later, he decided it was time for him to undress. So, he set some of his leaves free to flow to the ground, like little messengers from a higher-up world. I liked him especially then, standing beneath when the breeze came through, feeling time.
Now, he is almost naked, but not in a shameful way. I think he must know better than anyone the freshness of new beginnings.
I must admit, I am wishing away the rest if his leaves; knowing that, when they are gone, it will be my turn.