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I am a leaf shuffler. For me, there are few sounds as comforting to the spirit as walking through autumn's dry leaves, the remnants of last May's exuberance. I don't think of the foliage on the ground as dead for there is no death in nature; there is just a stage from life to life.
Robert Frost expressed it in his poem, "In Hardwood Groves."
"The same leaves over and over again!" he wrote.
"They fall from giving shade above
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove."
How apt is that last metaphor. After the melting of a heavy snow has pressed the leaves, now darkened and uniform in color, they do indeed look like a well-fitted glove across the back of a fisted hand.
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