A Monday Poem, Lightness in Autumn

Lightness in Autumn, by Robert Fitzgerald

The rake is like a wand or fan,

With bamboo springing in the span

To catch the leaves that I amass

In bushels in the evening grass.

I reckon how the wind behaves

And rake them lightly into waves

And rake waves upon a pile

Then stop my raking for a while.

The sun is down, the air is blue,

And soon the fingers will be too,

But there are children to appease

When ducking in those leafy seas.

So loudly rummaging their bed

On the dry billows of the dead,

They are not warned at four and three

Of natural mortality.

Before their supper they require

A dragon field of yellow fire

To light and toast them in the gloom.

So such for old earth's ashen doom.