Harry in the garden: my herculean husband, my scarlet-sweatered cardinal, my cranberry cocktail, I celebrate your progress on our mid-November lawn. The red oak fades to brown and crumbles round your shoulders like a coat of paper armor. You wait in place, eyeing the winter sky, plastic bag in one hand, rake like a saber in the other. Oh, beloved believer in order, faithful as moon and sun, persistent as lengthening grass — your gift to me: absolute certainty that for as long as leaves shall fall you will be there to catch them.