Fallen Memories of Summer

I like raking leaves. It happens once a year. A yearly ritual to mark the end of Summer; Summer, the Sun season, followed by the Falling of the leaves.
There are four red ornamental plum trees, out front, on the edge of the street. During their Falling, they weave a red blanket at their own feet; red drops of blood; the blood of Summer. Each leaf is a sliver of a memory; of hot afternoons and short, starry nights. Each leaf an early sunrise and evenings plump with light 'till ten.
These memories I gather. My rake an extension of my hands. Long fingers and longer fingernails. No hurry; the little piles pulled together. I am their shepherd urging the flocks to gather. These leaves are precious to me. Shining wet with November dew; red, yellow and green dabs left by an extravagant Artist.
These piles I take to the bank and deposit that wealth in my compost bins; my summer memories warehouses. All the long winter they will cook, simmering under drizzly skies; a brew for my garden; a spring tonic and hearty breakfast. Each leaf transformed, yet holding within the clues and urgings to tell my flowers what to do when the Sun Season returns.