Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
— Emily Bronte (1818-1848)
I love watching the leaves flutter around me while I sit on the garden bench with a book and a cup of coffee. Even raking leaves is pleasant for me. My husband, not so much. Every year he complains about their vast numbers, always wanting me to estimate how many leaves there are compared to how many there might have been last year. He fusses and sweeps and bags, never happy until that last leaf falls.
Today, Mother Nature is showing off the best of two seasons: light snow swirls like glitter in a snow globe, while leaves swoop to color November’s strange beauty with their brilliant reds and golds.
Bronte’s poem sings to me.