The leaves are not falling. Not yet. They are changing, growing, accepting a new role. When they do fall, I shall rake them. I will scrape this sidewalk until the cast-off many-colored robes are mounded high. Then I will heave them into my yard. I will watch my sweatered children discover and rediscover the joy of playing in death, the joy of jumping, laughing, sneezing, and rolling in the remnants of another year, the joy of being buried and resurrected, of climbing in and out of a grave.