it’s not very wonderful when the leaves escape,
skittering over the muck hand in hand with the wind.
we need to pin their fragile bodies down
and shove them into stiff brown paper leaf bags.
is it odd that we entomb these tree-children in
the pulverized entrails of their cousins?
would it be better if we left them, soggy and dissolving in the mud,
interlaced with grass, to liquefy and pass away from us?
to nourish the sprightly greenness of a spring lawn
to weave into the food chain rightful place, to feed the worms!
better? that is questionable. but every time the wind comes calling,
I do what I have always done, and see the brave few leaves that leave,
away across the pastel evening, singing through the chill blue rush of air
escaped from the rake like birds set free