Raking Leaves
A bunch of dead leaves.
They cling on the eaves,
verging on falling
killed by frost.
Coating the earth.
Sweaty brow that furrows in
thought as the wind pushes.
Leaving them only to fly
back--can’t get them all–
the fruits of this labor
eternal and constant
as the dead petals
Back and forth.
Cold, crisp rhythm
sweeping out the old.
Time tested,
true auburn harmony.
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