Raking autumn leaves 

the color of sea stars 

mottled on moist ground 

 

I watch them fall 

spinning slowly through blue sky 

as if the breeze was a tide 

ebbing and rising 

 

the rake feels like a paintbrush 

collecting color 

muddied by mixing 

into a fall palette 

 

a still life with fruit 

pears and apples still unblemished 

on branch attached 

but mushy and vinegar smelling 

 

our big white Pyr 

helps herself to fallen fruit 

laying claim to each orb 

her huge paws on either side 

moist nose buried 

in the rust of the Bosch 

the red of the Delicious 

 

we fill a wheelbarrow of leaf draped fruit

to bring below for coyotes 

we trap on camera 

motion sensed 

but motionless 

 

Malama the Pyr 

waits whining wondering 

if our chill morn together has ended 

but the leaves are piles of the fallen 

our task is not yet done 

 

more are gathered on tarp 

and dragged to garden bed 

to blanket wintersleep of bulb and tuber 

to feed in their decay 

the new blooms of a next spring day 

 

I have always raked 

far preferring the quiet metal combing 

through grassy tangled tufts 

over motored loud blower’s hum 

sending Moore's leaves whirling skyward 

 

but I am no longer  tempted 

to jump in the pile 

gathering armfuls whose yellow color 

is a child's crayon sun 

and toss them for a second fall 

 

no longer are they bagged  

in thick black plastic to wait 

decomposition amongst the landfill’s 

less pastoral refuse 

 

nor are they burned 

sending acrid leaf spirit smoke 

into the cold pale blue 

of October afternoon 

 

now their raking is not a ridding 

a discarding of what was season’s decoration

soon useless brown 

but more of a farewell 

a leaving of the light

 

an offering of what is still of use 

in the aged for what will be 

a period of cold and dark 

and winter's rest 

before the next season of green 

begins