I Want to Plant a Tree

Nov, 04, 2025

I want to plant a tree.

In autumn, one that bears no fruit.

When October turns the leaves yellow,

words begin to appear upon each leaf—

small ones, a single word;

larger ones, a line of verse.

In the sunlight,

as yellow deepens into gold,

these words too, shimmer

on the branches.

The autumn wind, as always,

blows them away, mixing them—

word by word,

line by line.

They spin briefly in the air,

landing in the woods, on the lakes,

in people’s backyards and parks’ playgrounds.

Some sink to the riverbed,

some float on the surface of the lake,

as wild ducks glide through;

read their poems in ripples.

Some are crushed underfoot, turning into dust,

slipping into the dreams

of seeds sleeping in the darkness of the soil.

Children running beneath the tree,

curiously pick up a few fallen leaves,

and tuck them between the pages

of their favorite notebooks.

Years later,

when they reopen those pages,

they will discover a collection of poetry,

covered by a thin layer of time.

Though the autumn wind sweeps fiercely,

a few stubborn leaves

still cling to the branches.

The order in which they are read,

depends on how the wintering sparrows

hop from one twig to another.

Occasionally, in winter,

you may find a half-buried leaf in the snow.

You pull it out from the frost,

lift it up against the sunlight—

and in the cold winter air,

you will awaken

the very first line

of a poem.

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