Around August

I pluck a rose leaf from the garden and hold it up to the light.

Light shone through a small hole eaten by an insect.

In spring, there wasn't a single hole. The light would filter through the young leaves in a soft green, casting a pale shadow on my palm. The leaves of August spill raw light from here and there. Holes eaten by insects. Leaf tips torn by the wind. Places where the color has faded from the sun.

The damage remaining on the leaves is also proof that they have taken on the changing seasons.

Leaves cannot move. They have simply received the rain, gathered the light, nurtured the buds, and supported the flowers. They swayed when the wind blew and endured the heat in silence. Remaining unscathed was never an option from the start.

August is also known as Hazuki, the month of leaves.

The garden is now filled with a green that is not just youthful. The leaves that have lived this long are each receiving the light with their own unique expressions.

The appearance of each and every leaf is simply dazzling to me right now.