Leaping Headfirst

        by Marc Pollitt

My path hides underneath its comforter,
released by oaks which stored it all last summer.
November's rumors of impatient frost
greet Northern birds who pause awhile to rest
and talk with all the relatives and friends
they haven't seen since they left Southern lands.

A sea of fallen leaves and heavy air
greet me with my rake when I step out the door.
My tired eyes survey the battlefield;
each Autumn I must war against the wild.
I note, with idle kicks, where tan and rust
and brown hide leaf-lost path; I dare not rest.

The rake's first sweep cuts deep and yields a scar
of naked shivering earth. I try once more;
the blanket turns back yet another fold.
Not naked now, the way instead grows bald;
the leaves combine into a burgeoning hill
which swells and fills and grows at every pull.

I move with haste and part the leaves, my poor
back yard Red Sea made empty, fresh, and clear
with rhythmic, patterned passes of the rake.
This labor drains me. I stand back and look
and see the path behind me; gravel, dirt.
The barren soil mocks my yearly effort.

I sigh and then resume my irksome toil
and pull another load down to the pile.
I throw the leaves high as I wave my tool
toward mound-top; some take graceful flight and fall
like dancers leaping, set adrift mid-air.
I ache to build the leaf-hill ever higher.

My arms lose all fatigue; I clear the path,
then start in on the yard, rake down to earth.
The leafy mound grows tall, and deep, and round,
until no unraked leaves remain at hand.
But then, mad impulse subjugates my senses;
leaping headfirst, I kick the pile to pieces.

 

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©2001 by Marc Pollitt, all rights reserved