Plants are interesting. There are so many living in so many different types of places. I guess they are not too unlike humans after all. I've been longing to see flowers so I've been picking on leaves everywhere I go, romantically hoping somehow a flower would sprout from the vines in the center, or from the bushes in suburbs. The first one I picked from a well-to-do neighborhood. I walked by it admiring the succulents and cacti teasing me ever so lightly from the other side of their window. You can tell they really keep their lawns growing since there were a couple of colorful flowers still hanging on from the winter.
The second leaf I took from my brief bike ride to the metro. Where a live, a small town of middle class residents, the wind tends to be a little more forceful. All plants have either lost their leaves or lost their color. The tall bushes that guard bicyclist and cars in one section of the way has dry leaves waiting for spring to make its way. I grabbed one. They are not dead, at least not yet. As the wind gushes by they manage to make a more impressive sound, as if they are demanding attention. The dry material is rough, and it crunches up when they move. The bush becomes alive.
The third leaf is weird. Yeah, it's green and shiny. You can tell. you can touch it and it won't crumple up. You can fold it and it will spring back to its undulating surface. It came from a housing development by the harbor that had a sort of Caribbean architecture aesthetic. I'd like to think it's the most like me. It's out of place but trying to fit in. The last leaf I took in my walk to the forest. Everything about nature is intensified in the forest. You can take a step without the creaking of twigs; birds sing masterful melodies; the wind whispers to the trees; the running of water is like cool tranquilizer. Because it is February and winter is still lingering, plants in the forest are dry. I grabbed this one off a large grass: stiff and standing up high.
I am really interested on how these leaves help me make sense of the places I've been. They tell stories. They show life. They follow my adventures.
The second leaf I took from my brief bike ride to the metro. Where a live, a small town of middle class residents, the wind tends to be a little more forceful. All plants have either lost their leaves or lost their color. The tall bushes that guard bicyclist and cars in one section of the way has dry leaves waiting for spring to make its way. I grabbed one. They are not dead, at least not yet. As the wind gushes by they manage to make a more impressive sound, as if they are demanding attention. The dry material is rough, and it crunches up when they move. The bush becomes alive.
The third leaf is weird. Yeah, it's green and shiny. You can tell. you can touch it and it won't crumple up. You can fold it and it will spring back to its undulating surface. It came from a housing development by the harbor that had a sort of Caribbean architecture aesthetic. I'd like to think it's the most like me. It's out of place but trying to fit in. The last leaf I took in my walk to the forest. Everything about nature is intensified in the forest. You can take a step without the creaking of twigs; birds sing masterful melodies; the wind whispers to the trees; the running of water is like cool tranquilizer. Because it is February and winter is still lingering, plants in the forest are dry. I grabbed this one off a large grass: stiff and standing up high.
I am really interested on how these leaves help me make sense of the places I've been. They tell stories. They show life. They follow my adventures.