THE NORTHEASTERN hardwood forests of America are spectacular always, but never more than at this time of year. When the trees reach their autumnal climax, the forest is in flame. Embers of leaf burn at our feet. We live inside a massive hearth, torched by tree. The deciduous tree speaks of illuminated manuscript and gilded hallways, of morning and mourning. The tree smolders for two weeks before it is fully extinguished. The whole speaks to us, as Robert Frost said, “as if it were leaf to leaf.” A poet of New England is a poet of leaves. He said there is no reason we have to go because they have to go.

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