The leaves of Autumn float gently down from the soon to be barren trees. As they quietly populate the ground, layer upon layer, they represent a metaphor for our lives.

In the Spring they silently entered into the world, cautiously exiting the little wombs lining the branches, branches which stretch mile after endless mile. Then they grow strong , lush and vibrant; capable of withstanding the violent rain and weathering heat of summer.

Then in early Autumn, they delight our eyes with the brilliant montage of their colors, painting scenes that evoke thoughts of Paradise. Now they are gone and with their passing we ponder the stark, denuding nature of death as they lay brown, crumbling and lifeless upon the ground.

Yet, it behooves us to inquire as we stare down upon their now uninspiring forms. Is what we witness before us the denouement of their life’s drama. The answer requires us to dig a little deeper. Doing so we observe that they shelter a hidden, living world beneath their dusky roof. The grubs and worms, bugs and beetles they give life to sustain higher forms of life which in turn sustain us. The flakes of paint peeling off from their ceiling becomes the earth which will nurture the trees, which will bring forth the leaves of a future season, which will represent a continuation of the cycle of their lives. Knowing this we can happily bid them farewell for we are certain that we will meet them again in Spring, after the Winter of our lives.