Raking Leaves

Life reads like leaves
falling, once green
turned yellow, orange, brown
replaced by buds
in Spring

I recall many times in Fall
my dad and I raked leaves
pushed up against fenceline
of one-acre contintent of labor
our backyard

Through pain of work I
found satisfaction in
job well done, complete, but Oh!
how I complained

Back when, I was young
my small arms strained
my manhood trained, and now
I rake the leaves at college
into the burnpile

Thick grey smoke rose from
bright smolering embers late
into the pitch-black night long after
we were done working by sunset, but
sometimes long after, just
to get the job done

Tired, dirty, grumpy, unpaid
we sat down to dinner, bringing
the burn-pile with us
but the girls never said a word
about the clash of our
clothes and face of grime
and smoke intwined
with the smell of a heavenly stir-fry, or
a crock-pot roast cooked with love

They were late dinners, back when, but we
always
ate with satisfaction.