On the morning of Mother’s Day, I got out my long-unused brushes and watercolor paints. I hoped to portray a small cluster of oak leaves I had selected from the ground, probably sent whirling to earth by a gnawing squirrel. The leaves were an inch and a half long and the fresh, light, green color of spring. They had sharp pointed tips and the cluster included what I call “oak dangles” hanging from the junction where the limb turned from brown to green.

As I began, I tried to remember my painting techniques. I made a pencil sketch first, then wet the paper, followed with a light wash of yellow, waited for the paint to dry, then finally colored the leaves green. All in all, it was a rather time-consuming and complex task to capture this tiny part of an oak tree in the early light of that spring morning. But the closer I looked, the more I saw.

Now, two days later, the actual oak cluster is dry and shriveled with the life force gone out of it, a swift progression from life to death. The leaf color has darkened into more of an olive green. The leaves have lost their sharp, pointed form as their tips have curled inward. When I lift the dry leaves off the paper towel where they rested, I can see that the dangles, even in decline, are doing their job — pollen has colored the paper yellow.

It was a pleasure to honor these young oak leaves, even if my work only approximates their intricacy. I am grateful to be able to use my morning to portray the gifts that Mother Earth gives us.