On the Vine

Row after row of dark, dry stubs, seemingly dead, like a forest after the fire. They wash the countryside in an ocean of greys and browns, of uninteresting indifference. But we park the car anyways, we step out onto the dry earth and make our way down the rows. The sun has returned, our cheeks are flushed. Far away in the treetops, familiar birds sing familiar tunes; the side of the road is littered with the flowers of childhoods past. And there, when we get real close to the gnarled bark, to the dreary corpses and spindly arms, there they are. A million tiny leaves, breaking through the hardened lava, fighting their way to the surface, to the sun. Every leaf is a brand new baby, shiny and flawless, that new bright green that only comes in Spring, and never lasts through the cycle of the seasons. We are born to die.

But oh, when we live, how brightly we shine.