Last days of red and yellow
I see neighbors, bundled and well meaning
with their rakes and leaf blowers, and in an instant,
I despise them.
Let them be.
Until I have piled high a cloud of yellow glow and run through it kicking my feet and tossing handfuls of nature’s confetti to the sky like a child.
Let them be.
While they still pulse with color
As though each golden leaf had drunk in every summer ray and saved it up to shine back at gray November skies triumphant
As though the glow of every sunset red and orange had faded into the night sky only to live on dormant, merely hidden
Waiting for this one fall day to burn boldly again.
Let me walk a little longer – a week or two – on this sparkling path of gold no less wondrous than the road to Oz.
Let my eyes drink in the red blaze that moves me, dares me, commands me to live fiercely, to abandon my certitude for passion, if only for an afternoon, or better, as long as the colors remain.
Soon enough the deciding storm will come.
The storm that rips the last defiant leaves from their branches, and leaves the glorious golden carpet a mass of fibrous, browning decay.
Soon enough the branches will stand bare and naked, stripped, with no adornment to shield them from the unforgiving winter sky.
That is the time for raking.