Raking Leaves

Look to the tallest tree
and see how the noon-day sun
glints through slender grey limbs
to where leafless Life contracts
to its tender core
(this year’s ring
complete)
and waits for winter’s storms.

Leaves lie,
golden harvest, luxuriant carpet
to kick and scatter like
brittle snow. . .
. . . years ago

playing through the autumn day long,
we built castles and smashing them,
dove deep into fragrant mounds.

Incense of burn piles
sanctified the chilled air of November.

Today I just rake,
scraping turf
making smaller heaps to haul
into my big green recycle bin

and see how golden autumn light
softly glows in gleaming grass,
free at last
from the detritus
of summer.