Mountains of Leaves
Under the leaves
Fired with red, breaking with yellow
Dew makes the grass still green
And as the trees lose more and more they
Don’t all shatter underfoot, but slide
Careful don’t fall.
He’ll go out soon, collecting the sodden
And the crisp, the dastardy sweet gum balls
Which make a mockery of ankle bones if unseen.
All in a pile, then taken from sight or burned up,
Rusty barrel in the back, ashes of our years’ past summers.
We’ll always see a small blond head bursting
And laughing from wet and crisp mountains
The three of us have made, though this year
Maybe she won’t make us clean it up again
And all the extra work, all the starting over
that will be