Artist’s Reign

None see me, for I am a sneaky devil, reveling in the cycles of this earth. My pleasure is to stoop beneath the roots of trees, to tickle the roof of the sky, to remodel and revise.

I am the Artist. King of artists. The one who paints the leaves. I start by selecting a tree – oh, how I adore the maples and cannas, such perfect canvases – then scurry up the bark. By blowing gently on the stems, I plant seeds of splendor in their veins. Soon... they will be mine.

How glorious my destructive, insidious spirit works! It leaks from a boiling heart and splashes color on those plain, green leaves. Spring has no claim against me! His pastels and swamping greens are pitiful in contrast to the acres of yellow sparks, scarlet blood, and fine dust that I strike into the forests. He despises the alterations to his creations, but oh, how marvelous I make them. Maples, sweetgums, aspens, oaks, sassafras, even the cypress can’t escape my brush.

Those pale creatures that dither here and dither there admire my work. Shivering in my presence, they gaze until their eyes pop out of their skulls. As they should. As they all should. I am the Artist, I am the greatest of everything and everyone – mightier than the blood-and-guts gaze of Summer, more glacial than the height of Winter’s wrath, darker than Death, nimbler than Desert’s bleak winds – I am sovereign!

Burdened with my own magnitude, I grow tired. My shoulders sag under the weight of such magnificence. Effectually, leaves lose their shape, crinkling and crumpling, failing in luster. Like me, they grow tired of glory. The time for rest is nigh, and the leaves can tell. Clutching onto branches and battling the winds becomes such a chore... until, ultimately, they release their tiny, wrinkly hands and swirl to the ground.

That is how I paint the leaves. I make them beautiful, brilliant enough to blind the sun, then destroy them. Trees are left naked from my meddling, and Spring sulks for many moons, while I, for one, dance amongst the trees’ garb.

Yet, I am exhausted, oh, so very exhausted. My mischief is the best, and as the best, the hardest prize achieved. Now I shall rest. A cushion of leaves for my pillow, I, Artist of Nature, bury myself deep in the earth, dreaming of future’s patterns and promises. My kingdom shall await my reign.