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.