The Raker of Leaves

The Raker of Leaves

by Matthew Johnson
Greensboro, NC

The jacket doesn’t do much against the chill,
At least until the day has been out for a while,
Aged by a few grains of sand when I begin my task;
With only time and a weekend to kill, I rake.

Chipmunks, lurking below leaf piles for nuts and seeds,
Scurry with the start of my rustic scraping.
The trees of nature go dormant all around me,
And from them, I rake.

I am ankle-deep in a mound of browns and yellows,
Chopped and strewn about in the backyard,
And I collect and bag them for hours,
Like I was hoarding gemstones.

I am outside for most of the day,
Until the harvest moon summons the night
At the most inconvenient time,
When unfinished projects butt up against the devoted darkness.

I fall asleep to the sounds of creaks and groans
Of the wind scratching at the branches of trees,
Until it tears off every last leaf
For me to rake tomorrow.