“When the leaves fall, the whole earth is a cemetery pleasant to walk in.”
-- Henry David Thoreau, “Autumn Tints”
No one sheds a tear as the colorful leaves of fall
flutter to the ground, and yet death is doing its busiest work with these old leaves. The vivid leaves that are falling to our lawns have all died, and yet there are no cries of sorrow among us, no sounds of grief and bereavement. In fact, autumn is more often a time of celebration, a time when kids kick up leaves with laughter and cider is shared around tables with gusto. It’s strange that the serene and silent death of these countless leaves usually leaves us appreciative rather than sad, satisfied rather than sorrowful. Perhaps it’s because the leaves die in such peace, and with such gracefulness. They don’t fight their fall and their end, but seem to float with it in a kind of relaxed reverie, as if they know their deaths will result in the rise of fresh new life in the spring.
When my time comes, I hope I can meet it with as much poise and deportment as our Mystic autumn leaves.
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