Raking Leaves
Poem for the Micro-Season— Maple and Ivy Leaves Turn Yellow
I can no longer smell them,
but I remember the yellow maple leaves with brown sugar edges
and the sweet scent of decay,
wading into raked-up piles of them and suddenly going under,
emerging to swim eighteen inches above the earth in delight.
On a warm, bright day that is not the warm of a summer day,
though a similar temperature,
I swim on my back and float,
looking up into the pure, piercing blue of an autumn sky.
Bright against the blue,
dying leaves flutter from side to side in unison.
Stems part with the hosting twig and swirl down as a yellow rain.
They fall drunkenly, replenishing the still-green ocean of grass.
They blanket the pasture, and late, winged samaras, delicate,
with ends like black tadpoles, swim in the water buckets.
The goats meander here and there,
nibbling at the sweetened feast.
When the bounty dries,
I sweep them up as goat popcorn and potato chips,
a treat for snowy winter evenings in the barn.
