Sweet gum leaves are my favorite. Smooth, waxy,
star-shaped, they glow in the sun on a tree across the street.
It’s magical to watch stars bud, unfold and grow,
as if some wizard boy, some Johnny Appleseed of stars
had wandered by and dropped a seed from outer space.
Somehow, I feel safe beneath that tree, as I feel safe
beneath a canopy of stars, its five-pointed leaves
reaching out to me like hands. I run my fingers across
the soft surface of a single leaf, wonder if I can wish
upon a star that’s rooted in the earth instead of far-off sky.
Lately (climate change?) the leaves begin to turn only
near Thanksgiving, their dark green gradually giving way
to red as Christmas approaches. Their openness and color—
lit by a streetlight when afternoon darkness settles in—
signal the festive season. When a deep red leaf drops
on early snow, the contrast is startling, the opposite of
a light star against a black night sky. And when they all
fall, a pool of red beneath gray branches, they slowly
turn brown and then disappear beneath the snow,
like a galaxy fading in the cool depths of space.