On Autumn Days

I pick the red and yellow and orange leaves

from the ground around

the base of the birch tree

and place them in a pile.

When the wind scatters them

across the lawn, I need

to start again.

Picking them, one by one,

from the base of the tree

to the boundaries of the yard,

I carry them with care

and place them in a neat pile,

and when a breeze blows,

I cover the mound with my body,

protect them like they are my children.

This will be the last time,

I will gather the leaves

just once more,

and if the wind blows

and strews them,

then I will let them lay

where they lay,

this is the promise

I repeat to myself.

I seize and tremble

as I sit and wait for the

wind to come,

and when it does,

I watch as the leaves disperse,

reds and yellows and oranges

dancing over the top

of the pale green blades

of grass.

They taunt me with their colors,

their reds and yellows and oranges,

I want to hold them in my hand

and absorb them,

replace my pale wan skin

with their lush pigments.

Just once more, I say,

just once more I will collect them

and place them in a pile,

and watch as the wind blows

them where it may.

And so, I walk around the yard,

this one last time, my promise

to myself, and collect

the red and yellow and orange

leaves and place them

in a pile at the base

of the bare birch tree.