Strewn about the yard, the leaves that sprouted in early spring, created shade at the height of summer, and transformed magically as autumn ripened, await their burial. Dust to dust, earth to earth, it is a ceremony as full of ritual as any in my life.
For is there any observance so pleasant as the gathering of the leaves...
on days when sunshine is in abundance...
...and there are happy, resilient flowers to keep you company as you toil?
When, out of breath, your body responding to the aerobic benefit of your work, you look above and see the forgotten silhouettes of the trees whose tending you now nurture, realizing this new cleanliness will provide the backdrop to the landscapes of the winter months to come?
There is a rhythm to this work that I cherish. There is a reverence for this transition that is sacred. There is a sensuousness that rises from deep inside as I sweep their crisp bodies into piles with my rake, scoop their fragrant forms into their plastic coffins, and wait as more sever their ties from their tree-homes in the twittering breeze.
For it is the ultimate signal that much is coming to an end. The superlative metamorphosis from life towards death. And yet, there is much beauty in the brisk clarity that is November, in the soft snowflakes of winter, in the sleep that will deliver us unto spring.
But for now we measure progress by swatches of green...
by depth of color...
...and by ratios of branch to leaf:
Knowing that we must participate fully in this work...
...in this solemn celebration
...of life, and death, and the connective seasons from which we are born.
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