Hope Is a Garden
As the public face of my own unlawnful project, the front garden is usually kept at least somewhat tidy. All that falls apart, literally, when the leaves from tall maple trees come down in their multitudes and proceed to blow up and down the street in dramatic gusts and cyclones of yellow and orange. I rake what I can from pathways and the neighbors’ lawns (with their enthusiastic permission). Then the leaves are processed by being jumped on repeatedly by two small humans. After which, they can safely be spread as mulch on recently planted garlic beds (three this time), garden paths, and anywhere else in the more secluded back garden. Meanwhile, in the front garden, a disheveled appearance is the norm until the wind blows away any leaves not securely stuck between plant branches. Secretly I relish the disorder, and welcome each drooping, decayed, or desiccated plant as a tiny monument to this stage of autumnal degrowth.