Seasoned

    I looked up into trees lined with fall colors, backlit by blue skies. A solitary leaf hit me in the face and continued to the ground. I picked it up and looked it over up close. Nothing overly spectacular, but lined with its own unique intricacies. Its midrib flowed top to bottom with lines and marks of age branching off like a family tree with many twists and redirection. Holes had been eaten through by past inhabitants. Their nourishment had left scars on their lifeblood. Same principle with people; leaving a collective mark on the good earth.

    Another leaf fell my way, this time a smaller and much younger leaf. It being without the scars, but still at end of life with winter approaching. A late bloomer, evidently. Its color already faded, the ravages of time now working against it.

    I am drawn to the old, scarred soul. It's lived long enough to tell a few tales. And it helped a few kindred spirits along the way to flourish.