The art of sweeping leaves

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.

Simon Denegri
January 2020

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