time again

...

Tired of restraining themselves all winter, the trees suddenly take themselves for fools.They can stand it no longer:they let loose their words-a flood, a vomiting of green. They try to bring off a complete leafing of words. Oh well, too bad! It'll arrange itself any old way!In fact, it does arrange itself! No freedom whatever in leafing...They fling out all kinds of words, or so they think; fling out stems to hold still more word. "Our trunks," they say, "are there to shoulder it all." They try to hide, to get lost among each other. They think they can say everything, blanket the world with assorted words: but all they are saying is "trees"

They can't even hold on to the birds who fly off again, and here they are rejoicing in having produced such strange flowers! always the same leaf, always the same way of unfolding, the same limits; leaves always symmetrical to each other; symmetrically hung!Try another leaf--The same!One more, --Still the same! In short, nothing can put an end to it, except this sudden realization: "there is no way out of trees by means of trees." One more fatigue, one more change of mood. "Let it all yellow and fall. Let there be silence, bareness, AUTUMN.
--Ponge.