Monday, January 1, 2018


Herself speaks.

The weather was beautiful yesterday, and I took advantage of it by raking leaves in the back yard for a couple of hours. It was thoroughly enjoyable. The smell of the leaves reminds me so much of childhood: every fall, there were giant piles of leaves into which we would fling ourselves from off of the swingset. Swing, swing, higher and higher, until finally *release* and arc and fall into the leaf pile. The leaves were earthen-scented, vaguely damp (with the occasional slug -- shudder) yet oftentimes still crunchy. Maple, oak, chestnut. Leaves, leaves.

The leaves here in the southwest lack that damp earthen-ness of those in the northeast. They are, nevertheless, quite satisfactory. They gather up against rock walls and in the dense desert shrubbery. They crunch underfoot. (A few autumns ago before Cherished Friend moved to his own northern corner of the desert, there would occasionally be an opportunity to shuffle through the leaves on the walking path we would take. I always liked to do so.). Leaves, leaves.

The leaves of autumn are bittersweet. Still, they are lovely.

Tiny Dog is intimidated by the leaf pile. 

1 comment:

  1. Being in NJ for the first time, in a long time, for all the seasons has been very eye opening. I used to dread fall as it portended so many months of winter which I dread. But this year, I decided to be as present with the seasons as possible. It led me to really contemplate the leaves, listen to them, watch them, collect them, feel them and even smell them. When the leaf blowers began their work in earnest to remove them from paths and lawns, I felt like there was a war on the leaves. It made me sad as there would be no children jumping in these piles which is the only reason I can see for making them at all.