Light my eyes.

The leaves sit on the trees and wait oh so. Its a slow and quiet change, not like that of the north where its big and loud in its painfuly quiet emptyness. Here its waiting, until one day, when all the leaves just know its time. Some hold on, some fight it, but others are ready to move with the wind. And it comes and sweeps at the trees like fates hand.
Its a week of change. Its a week of celebration. Its a week of death, and of life, a week of starting and ending. Above in the clearest sky in an age, the lights of heaven gaze down.
What do they think of what they see? We are so conflicted down on our little patches of green night. So conflicted, and so sublime. So much gace, so many tears. How quickly our time passes, but how brightly our candles burn.
Which moves faster through a crowd of milling souls? A laugh and a smile of sweet joy? A yawn and a shrug form the tired and the careless? Sickness at a poor soul loseing his lunch? Or the tears of a weeping girl? Each will rage through us like a firestorm. What burns brightest in us? What would this say about us if we knew?
Its not for us to say, I think. Just as the man who stands accused of a crime can't stand on his own befalf, we are to close to this thing called life. Our view is small and our blindfolds strongly knoted.
I hope the stars are watching, I hope that someone is high enough in the brittle glass night to see and be glad.
Can you even imagne what that would look like? We shine so brightly on our shadowed disk, it would be a wonder if anyone ever found us at all. We glow like the stars around us.