Humming Nico’s “The Fairest of the Seasons” (on last.fm here), I thought about how difficult it is to measure time when the leaves are always green.

Other leaves near the magic cottage have small tears, holes, but these have exposed threads—

the equivalent of the detachment of oak leaves as their chlorophyll drains?

Is the undernetting the fragile future, the ephemeral present, or the threadbare past of the leaf?

Related posts:

1. of leaves and light
2. brunch is the word
3. where the wild trees are