Leaves live torrid, vivid, gaudy lives - until the persistence of rain and the rancour of cold takes from them their brilliance and their saturation. Then they are but ghosts on the ground until their bones and veins become the colour of concrete, and they fade to memory.
Wine and a bowl of soup with a good, sweet friend.
Dying vines smile when they feel November rains. It promises them that they will be young and succulent again in the spring. It's why we, as humans, should upturn our faces to the raining sky. We tend not to understand the nature of promises.
You cannot chain a tree to the ground. They grow their limbs up into the sky in a fervent wish to fly. And, finally, when they can reach no more, they burst birds from their leaves - bearers of their yearning to float with the clouds.