Raking Leaves

The clear blue sky of a crisp November morning,

Barren giants with crooked arms upward raised,

And the lonely yellow orb suspended at noon.

I rake leaves, shards of color reminiscent of fire,

The last evidence of a long passed Summer,

Carpeting the ground in flamboyant defiance.

They swish and swoosh across the cold dry grass,

Crackling into a collection of fading vibrancy,

Only to scatter again with a breath of wispy wind.

Now only the tan dead grass and cloud of breath,

Hot from my mouth as I rake the fallen leaves,

And drag them in piles to the corner of the backyard.