On a cold November morning, a compost pile can look strangely alive. The lawn is stiff. The beds are mostly bare. The shed roof may be silvered with frost. Then, from a heap of leaves, stems, peelings, and coffee grounds, a pale veil lifts into the air. It is easy to read that steam as something dramatic: smoke, rot, danger,…
By late October, the garden begins to receive its own mail. Leaves arrive one by one, then by the basketful, sliding from maples, oaks, birches, cherries, serviceberries, and every tree that has decided the season is finished. They collect in corners, gather under shrubs, drift across paths, and make the lawn look as if it has been quietly written over.…
