Some fetch a rake and broom,
A rusty dustpan and old brush,
Two wooden boards of equal length,
And choose a frosty afternoon
To gather the harvest’s golden blooms.
Others make mounds of good intent
But lazily leave them to brood
All winter in the corner of their yard,
A flat black patch of mulch and mould
The crumpled cloak of a stricken villain.
My Dad would make a bonfire
And let me stoke the flames with questions
As numerous as the autumn colours,
Together we would watch them climb
Through the empty trees unanswered.
Now I find myself sweeping
All before me, with one hope only,
That the wind will catch these leaves
Until their blades are spinning free
Like Latin dancers, and with them me.