Raking Leaves
The tines of the rake
comb through a dispersing tumble.
Ocher clumps form random hillocks,
most slip through the iron teeth
dancing drunkenly away.
I was called into the rushing air.
Physical work with the dead and dying
is a ‘calling’ isn’t it?
The newly deceased keep falling.
Maple leaf bones crackle underfoot.
I scoop their remains,
brush an autumnal cerecloth,
shake the dead into swirls of afterlife.
Today, I fancy I am a caretaker
for the changing seasons,
yet an autumnal age divests me.
the years turn
and I am more exposed.
Next year I will buy a leaf blower,
my wife may need it
when I fall.
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