Today's poetry selection is "Fall, Leaves, Fall" by the 19th century British poet and novelist Emily Bronte. Bronte, who was best known for her singular novel, Wuthering Heights, was also a poet of considerable regard.
I have been watching and enjoying the falling leaves for the past several days. They are a brown and gold reminder of the cycle of life, first appearing from tiny green buds in the spring, spreading into canopies of cooling shade during the heat of summer, and then fluttering gracefully to the ground in autumn. By the time winter arrives, most of the trees on my farm will be little more than stark bare limbs reaching desperately to the heavens.
Autumn is the time when trees let go of the vibrancy of life and drift into a peaceful slumber. With their temporary sleep much of nature's wildlife has to sharpen their survival skills in order to make it through the winter. I help as I can - with bird and squirrel feeders up and full, and a salt lick out for the deer up close to what passes for a pond at Rock's Roost.
I'm also beginning to mulch leaves into the lawn as it goes dormant for the winter, and I'll cart bushel after bushel of the dead leaves over to my garden spot where they will work their way into the soil over the winter and help to feed the young garden plants in the spring. The leaves on this farm are never burned - they work until they are consumed by the earth and are reborn into next year's greenery.
So I am happy watching the leaves as they drift down from the trees because they are an important part of continuing life at the farm. Fall, leaves, fall!
Fall, Leaves, Fall
by Emily Bronte