There is no breeze. Yet I sense some silent whisper that liberates a golden leaf up in the crown of my oak; its gentle swaying path catches my eye. Without wind, it makes its own rhythm, like a conductor waving a baton – left, right, left, right – in connected arcs just like how my son used to draw a Christmas tree.
At full attention, I am happy to follow this leaf as it dances down. I don’t want it to reach the ground and wish for some breeze to play with it and raise it back up. But gravity prevails and it joins its brothers and sisters among the grasses and weeds I call a lawn.
I walk over, enjoying the rustle of the leaves around my feet. I find my golden leaf perched daintily atop a small sea of browns, reds, and greens. Can I detect that back-and-forth motion faintly amongst the stillness of its resting place? I smile as I pick it up, turning it between my fingers to admire its visual art. Besides the gold, its palette includes brown and green and a touch of red, all seeming to glow between the raised veins which nourished the leaf during its season of life. The little knob on the end of the stem makes a perfect handle to turn it so the sun catches the colors. I walk back to the house and give it a featured spot on my mantel.
After a week, I realize it is losing its flexibility and press it into one of my books of Rumi poems. When I rediscover it a couple years later, it is cracked and brittle but still reminds me of its graceful dance and the magic of one autumn day deep in my memory.