With rustling leaves...

These days I have been taking long aimless walks around my neighborhood(s). The air has been cool and crispy. The sidewalks and streets are blanketed with brown and bright golden leaves. Countless times my senses have been exploding with pleasure and I have had to stop and just witness this. In a neighborhood park I rest my knees into the rustling autumn earth and reach my hands into its layers of dried leaves.

To translate the poem from the previous post...

The garden is full of dry leaves;
Never have I seen so many leaves in their green trees, in spring.
-Jose Juan Tablada

When I first read this poem I took it to speak to how one notices death much more than life. That, in fall, we mourn the death of the leaves' but we also mourn that life because we realize we had not fully acknowledged or celebrated it until its passing. However, as I read this poem on a morning like this, surrounded by abundance passing on; I can truly say that never have I felt such gratitude for death nor so much contentment with its falling.