Most mornings, I pause briefly to admire the leaves of a plant just outside the magic cottage–some are green with red veins, some red with green veins.
As though woven by chlorophyll artists, I noticed the slight tears and small holes in many of the leaves the other day. Perhaps part of the tropical storm weather, perhaps an inevitable consequence of their longevity.
They seem to tell stories–this one bruised by an old memory, that one letting parts be eaten away.
And then, I started to look through the gaps, thinking about the leaves as the negative space surrounded by the light.
It is the tears of these native leaves, then, that I’ll lean in closer to see, that beckon me into the end of the week…or is it the beginning?