The Yard

         There is a tree. Large, with many leaves, many branches. Green and big. It creates a large shadow on the ground. It stands there alone, dug in deep, and flourishing. The rains feed the tree and the sun keeps it green and strong. As the leaves get old, they turn to gold, then to red, then to brown. They dry and fall to the ground. The leaves scattered across the yard wither, dead, decompose feeding shoots of grass that spring upward. Bright green tint the floor around the tree. The death of some bring out the life around the tree. The man who owns the yard that this tree resides decides that his yard should be protected, set apart from others. Others that are not as nice, fertile as his. He builds a fence. One with slats in it, and paints it white. The type of fence that separates his from his neighbor's yard, but more decorative than anything. A yard, with a tree, green grass, and a white fence. Still the tree has leaves that grow old, turn brown and fall to the ground. And the man spends time once every week to rake the leaves into a pile in the back corner of his yard. Sometimes the wind blows through yard scattering some leaves from the pile across the yard. These, along with the newly dead leaves fallen form the tree are swept again to the side, into a pile. A few years later, the man notices more leaves dying and falling from the tree, but he simply continues raking them to the piles. And soon, he notices that there seem to be more leaves on the ground, brown and dead than green and living in the tree. Strewn about the yard, along with the scattered piles makes for a mess of a yard. He devotes more time each week,  more resources to get rid of the leaves, hiring a neighborhood boy to help rake for him twice a week in addition to his normal weekly raking. But soon, he notices there are very few leaves flashing greenly in the tree. And he is out in the yard with the rake every free moment he can get. The piles of dead leaves have taken up much of the yard. From being in the back corner, they are now several feet high, and reach across half of the yard. A man from a neighboring town, on passing, sees the once beautiful, flourishing yard and the man hard at work raking the dead leaves to the side and decides to make a few suggestions. "Your tree seems to be sick, diseased maybe. There is a treatment for such ailments. Also, you can put those piles of leaves back to work, turn it to mulch, add richness back to the soil." The man continues passing by. The man, rake in hand, thinks about such suggestions. "Maybe," he thinks to himself, "Maybe."

It begins...

I have begun the project for the year... Be looking forward to the posted works... I'm looking to get one posted each week.