Lightness in Autumn

The rake is like a wand or fan, With bamboo springing in a span To catch the leaves that I amass In bushels on the evening grass. I reckon how the wind behaves And rake them lightly into waves And rake the waves upon a pile, Then stop my raking for a while. The sun is down, the air is blue, And soon the fingers will be, too, But there are children to appease With ducking in those leafy seas. So loudly rummaging their bed On the dry billows of the dead, They are not warned at four and three Of natural mortality. Before their supper they require A dragon field of yellow fire To light and toast them in the gloom. So much for old earth’s ashen doom.