Trees that wear hats

 I watch as my dreams dissolve into the uncaring world.  I watch the oak gently reaching for the sky, its open palm lay open, fingers outstretched, gathering bronze. Hail autumn, your winds have reached me. They are gentle, fatherly, easing nature into the inevitable change to come. The linden aroma crumbles amidst the seeds of harvest, and so work and toil has to begin. Fittingly, I reap what I've sown. Loneliness, longing, lust. I harvest lessons from the deathly shell of my ego, my soul, my shroud of lies. They've bloomed into an abyss of no margin. The wind rustles my leaves and I'm left feeling its unfairly gentle to me. Of course I'm but a sapling, so it doesn't matter. The water is gentle, the wind caresses, the birds are calm, and I even find a way to smile, but I feel so damn close to looking too deep into the black. My 27th autumn, and I hear all the echoes, its melancholy is gripping. And I find myself as I've always been.

Why is it trees that wear hats? It's as simple as, there's strength and verticality. Nurturing, shelter, ecosystem. There's communion through the roots and canopy, there's green from white, health from pollution. Silence, yet presence.  The coldness and serenity of the forest walk, the shielding from the wind. There's homes upon homes amidst the branches. Cling onto them to stay away from pests. Climb the hardened hull, it will be there for you.  The colors change with the winds, as it must be, for without change there is nothing but death. Yet the forest persists, through fire and brimstone and chill and thaw. We move from side to side yet never waver. And when you become a target from the know-it-all, you know you've made it. You know the essence is within. The smell lingers and burns and rejuvenates and refreshes. The water clings, yet it is gently let onto the ground. Mating is elegant, unimposing, the three finds roots eventually. There is Tao, there is lig