I rake the leaves
Oak and sycamore
A crust of red scab
Coats the garden
The stem veins browning
To mulch for the earth's glut
Without my scrape
These shields become
A deathly shadow
To the weak grass
They grow yellow
As dead men's bones
Everything is silent
Apart from the rake
The teeth twang
Against the roots
Like a guitar left
Out all winter
A blister on my palm
Soon to callus, toughen
The wooden handle
Grows heavier
As my fingers fuse
We have much to do
From these rings
Of leaves, I will take
the fronds and throw
Them onto the fire
This all according my nature
My burning bush, my fire in time
