An autumn poem before I get totally into fiction writing.
The little maple tree young and maybe not yet used to how things are stood red as fire dressed to call attention to her beauty. Her fate was to stand alone in a small clearing in the forest on the mountainside. She trembled delicately in the cool dawn breeze still in the shadow of older and taller trees. When the sun climbed the clean cloudless sky warm golden fingers touched the tree top, moved downward caressing. The leaves began to fall as they were touched. They rained directly down mounding at its feet like a robe dropped seductively. When the day's light bathed the entire tree she stood naked as a concubine prepared for the Emperor's pleasure.
The mid-70s are a surprise! Part of me remains in the 50s -- age, I mean, not decade of 20th century. It's a joy ride, new experiences land in my lap and I've become a better quilter, poet, writer than I expected. It's a rich life for a person never rich financially. Hey, this is what the mid-70s are like!