Man is cold to natural beauty as he is forced into the habit of compulsory behaviour. He is unable to appreciate a maple leaf and note its dark shades of green. If it's not about needing a microscope it is that its shades are figuratively too insignificant for him to notice. In the trapped demise of feeling rushed, he finds it difficult to enjoy the pristine calmness that would otherwise be available. In a sorry state he complains of what holds him imprisoned in the cribs. Will a maple leaf draw him out? Can the roses relieve him from the clutches of high handed expectations? Can the rain shadowed clouds teach the aggressors and cultural authorities not to propel his barges that they have identified without his consent? He is right in asking.
Man, if he is the origin of society has been made a prisoner of order. A prisoner does not notice the variety of surplus forces for he is behind bars. There is a gap between him and other living beings. In this gap he feels separate from the rivers for he does not flow like them; he feels separate from the winds for he does not feel them, he feels he is separate from freedom for he is barred from too much of it. This separateness starts with a maple leaf and builds to a confrontation with his conscience. Green is not the colour that feeds his senses for they are closed. The only senses that are open to him are the senses that aid in his survival.
If a leaf can invoke this personal confrontation then it can surely bring him closer to the creation that he is, if not open up senses needed to please over natural beings. It can invoke it, but by no means does it attempt to provoke it. The tree that feels blessed to have such leaves may or may not be conscious of the fact that it has them. Man is conscious of its leaves. He may not be sure if the tree is sentient but the thought of it being so, can make him more sentient.
In the instant notice he looks at the maple leaf once again, at the flowing rivers he feels the winds again and at his freedom he looks again; he realizes how alive and sentient he really is. The wonders that he once let pass off, he now preserves, and believes for a minute that he can never experience boredom. He then stops being a machine. He stops listening to the clamour of his elders and his peers and starts listening to the mysterious cosmic emotion that keeps him composed in his freedom. He thanks the skies and realizes that there are no limits to his euphoric experiences. He quits his earlier preoccupations and lets the leaf tickle him to new depths of heaven.