Fall quiets with anticipation.  

A slow hush falls to the earth as it prepares for a long winter's sleep.   The leaves announce the coming of the end (and the promise of a new beginning) as their colors change from greens into brilliant shades of reds, oranges, yellows, and browns.  The oppressive humidity finally leaves the South and a crispness to the air arrives ushering in a slight chill.  

The harvest is picked and collected from the fields, leaving rows and rows of stalks and dirt.  The sun gives everything a breathtaking glow as it sets over the workers.  The families rake and collect and gather the fallen leaves.  

Sometimes only to gather them again.  

And again.  

I could cry.  Buckets.
Molly & Lily 2008.  

And even the earth knows and proclaims and cries out that Death must occur before New Life can truly begin.  

It knows it must lay everything down in order to release the old from its hands and branches before the new can take root and flourish and can begin living with a renewed purpose. 

Molly.  5 years old.
And full of possibility. 

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