How abundantly the aspen leaves do grow,
Sprouting from their fore-bearer.
The buds soon expand outward,
Taking in the joys of the world.
Reaching, projecting, growing ever more.

Autumn is coming.
The leaves are the signals.
The indicators.
The warning.
Warning for small animals to go into hiding,
And brace themselves for the deathly frost that will soon be upon them.
The beauty is falsely innocent.
Luring the naive into a false sense of security.

Such simplicity has never been known like the identical stalks of thousands of grass blades,
Nor has such beauty ever been properly admired.
The wind sways the plants as a whole,
while every individual stalk quakes to its own rhythm.
The effect is awe-inspiring.

Radiating beauty.
The striking sun propels its rays through the delicate framework of the leaves,
Eaten away by months of hungry animals.
The miniscule hairs on the edges of the plant appear in sharp contrast to the brilliance of the light around it.