Articles/Essays – Volume 51, No. 2
Raking
I’m pretty sure I would consent
to consignment in a hell comprised
of raking leaves
forever,
the rhythmic, rustling pull
being the only sound of tide this child
of the desert has known.
Banish me
to the smell of crushed summer,
faded from its autumn brilliance
into an unassuming,
curled, and papery brown
on which is written
the leaf-strewn laughter
of every child who has ever lived
among trees in October.
A great irony
that buried in this crackling decay
is youth itself,
revealed in the urge
to jump
kick
and revel
in flagrance.
Promise me this hell.
Give me a falling—
a wind-fueled dance
in descent
to an earthy oblivion—
and I will promise
to steal every scrap of warmth,
get drunk on broken sunlight,
and cheat winter
of the delusion
that it has won.