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Burning Autumn Leaves

[1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]

My long steel pointed rake punctured

And twisted through tons of autumn leaves

(back in the ‘50s);

And there’s a hill yet, I didn’t rake, I see

Behind it, two embankments

Leaves I didn’t rake a day ago;

The essence of fall sleeps on the ground.

I love the scent of burning leaves:

I seem to dream of them nowadays.

I cannot shake the excitement I get

From the sight and smells of burning leaves.

Now the city will not allow the burning,

Not sure what can take its place—:

Only wishful thinking and dreaming, I think.

But every leaf that now appears, in autumn

I keep hearing the cracking of the fire; see

The flickering-flames of burning leaves; I

Can even smell—-the autumn leaves of long ago.

I have had too much of raking leaves, I do believe—.

I’m now old and tired, too tired to rake those hills;

Yet raking I still desire, not sure why.

There were a thousand days I raked, back then

Held in hand, the rake that struck the earth—

Spiked, into its dirt—capturing those critters (leaves)

Like thieves—: thieves sleeping.

This tiredness of mine will never go away, I fear

It’s called aging, or something, so I will have to find

Another place, to smell the burning autumn leaves;

And perhaps, perchance, do just a ting of raking:

Before the long, long, very long sleep.