he autumn winds came as they always did. The great tree shook in anticipation. There was a glow to this time of year, every color was intensified. Now, every forest and town has one great tree that oversees the other trees and conducts the many seasons. For hundreds of years this tree rested atop a hill looking down on a quaint town. This tree was an artist—it was ancient, wise, and full of vision.

Every Fall the great tree would paint the world with its magic. It loved working enchantments on the thousands of leaves it painted with, for when the time came, October would free its many leaves and off they would fly, covering the land with rich reds, warm golds, and lively orange—mixed with a touch of green for good measure.

What a landscape it was, freckled with pumpkin patches and bales of hay. It would watch the people with a joy set deep in its roots. It loved how the leaves would be piled, then jumped into by playful children, and a few adults still young at heart. The leaves made the soil rich for next year's harvest. It was a way to connect with the people of the town.

Yes! This was indeed the great tree’s favorite season. It was, at heart, an autumn tree.

There was an old woman named Millie who, just like the tree, was a painter. She would come and set her easel down on the hill and sit next to the tree, and used her brush to capture the landscape. Both admired the other's work, and were the best of friends.

One summer afternoon, before Fall had found its way and after Millie had painted a picture town below and gone home, a thunderstorm gathered overhead. It did not rain, but loomed heavy and green. A bolt of lighting, bright blue and fierce, struck the tree, causing it to catch fire. Fire can be a cruel thing if left to its own devices. This flame was no exception. It wrapped its greedy self around the mighty tree, devouring it with a savage hunger.

By the time Millie and the townspeople realized what was happening, the poor tree was ablaze. The fire was put out and the tree saved, but the flame had done terrible damage. The tree had lost its branches and bright colors. It was now disfigured, no longer the strong, striking presence it had once been.

he Autumn Tree spent the next year recovering. Winter's ice was a soothing balm and spring’s rain washed away the soot. Summer and sunlight strengthened its scars, but when Fall came its greatest fears were realized: it had not grown any leaves. The once-gifted artist was bare—it had no colors to give, none of its art to share. Now the other trees would not listen and in turn lost their direction, letting the leaves fall without any pattern.

Much to the sorrow of the Autumn Tree, the townspeople also began to forget all about the color of Fall. Except Millie. She still visited her friend often. She would sit and paint and talk as if nothing had changed, and for this the tree was thankful.

“You cannot give in to despair, dear tree. From pain can come perspective.”

She held up her withered hands to the tree, her fingers gnarled.

“Life gave my hands pain, but instead of giving up I turned to painting. I keep hope, one has to have hope,” she said, placing her hands on the base of the tree.  “Hope comes with the sunrise.”

Many years passed till one day, on a spring morning, the tree felt something. It felt life at the tip of its branches, very faint, but precious, a solitary leaf!

This leaf became the tree's artistic passion. It set to work pouring many lifetimes of beauty into that one leaf. Every moment of the sun, every color of the seasons, the taste of rivers and the secant of shooting stars. The tree cherished this leaf dearly; it held it close in bad weather and blustery winds, never letting go.

The tree showed its project to Millie, and tears filled her eyes. She patted her old friend. “I do believe you have grown your masterpiece.”

The Autumn winds came as they always did, and the tree knew it was time and let the leaf blow into town.

It floated past shop windows and through the square, down streets, and neighborhoods, each of its colors rich and vibrant. The leaf caught the attention of young and old alike. The townspeople stopped and stared in wonder at the single leaf that held all the glory of Fall in its fragile frame. They once more remembered the Autumn Tree and all the beauty it had given them. They held a meeting about how to help their once-loved tree. The meeting was led by Millie, who, unknown to the tree, was a very famous artist and owed a good deal of inspiration to her friend.

fter many hours of planning full of pumpkin pie, apple cider, and one or two bad ideas, they knew what to do. Late at night, when the Autumn Tree was sleeping, the people of the town ever so quietly climbed into its bare branches. It took them all night, but at last it was done. That morning, the tree awoke. Its branches felt warm and seemed full of leaves, but they were different. They were made from cloth canvas, draped over the tree like a giant bonnet,  painted with leaves. It was a work of art by the townspeople. They were all smiling. Millie’s grin was the biggest. 

“Remember what I told you: hope comes with the sunrise. You inspired us,” she said, “so we wanted to share our inspiration with you.”

In all the Autumn Tree’s life, it had never felt so appreciated for its art. From that day on, it was a tradition that when Fall began the people would gather and paint a big beautiful collection of leaves for the tree to wear. And the Autumn Tree would let its single leaf blow into town—the signal for the magic of art to begin.