Tuesday, October 16, 2012

raking leaves


Tempting to lay in the yard looking up
at the sky this late in the day rake stilled
by my side handle and tines a short hand

punctuation mark, questions rising like
wood smoke to wreath trees humming softly as
they turn in for the long cold night, answers

perhaps nesting high in their branches, but
if there are the trees aren’t saying as they
step out of blowsy summer dresses that  

pool about their feet.  They pepper me with
a cacophony of hued muted prayers,
a burial ritual of tannic

seasoning, the laying on of red and
yellow serrated hands that gently hold
me down, one last patch of blue before first

one eye and then the other are covered
over, lids held in place by summer’s loose
pocket change, broad strokes of paired copper glint.

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