Sweeping Leaves In the Wind

There is something strangely satisfying About sweeping leaves in the wind. A pure and pristine panacea for the soul. As the impish zephyrs play With a rustle of laughter Tumbling through; Sometimes for, Some against, the action of my toil. With the rhythmic swish of my broom The breeze blows and the branches bow, Scattering Nature's confetti. A tree lives a lifetime every year. From the youth of Spring through Summer's prime, To the regal twilight of Autumn, Reminding us that there is such beauty in old age. As a child I saw In my mind's eye, The word AUTUMN written in the russets and ochres of the falling leaves. Colours so bright, but with an earthiness that grounded, Enveloping in the warmth of Nature. Akin to wood smoke and open hearths, Unlike the flashy pomp of Summer's gaudiness. Autumn awakens sleeping memories, Turning my thoughts to the magic of childhood And how I used to play at being grown up As, in youthful innocence, I attempted the futile task Of sweeping leaves in the wind.