Fall demands that leaves leave. Acquiescing, they fall.
After which, they lie in wait. For what remains unclear. Mine looked perfectly happy lazing around in heaps that faded from red and orange to brown and brittle.
I liked the crinkle underboot, the flurry that followed the dog, the nutty scent of the season settling. It put me in mind of nut-brown gingerbread, spiced with cinnamon, cloves and pepper.
Eventually I gave in, locating rake, tarp and Saturday. Friday I slid to sleep on good intentions and awoke to a deep drift of snow. Relieved of rake duty, I was relieved to read that leaving the leaves can be good. They serve as comforter and snack to the dozing plants.
Good things happen inside too _ like lazing around, sinking gingerbread deep into a drift of whipped cream.
