Gathering rosebuds with my rake; <br />the wooden tines scraping <br />over the gravel path <br />bringing a token of order <br />to the autumn of a life; <br /> <br />rosebuds, nipped at the neck <br />by frost; dead leaves <br />curled like begging or covetous hands, <br />coloured like rich memories, red, orange, brown, <br />dry husks, spilt seed, <br />now crisp, eager to surrender to the fire, <br />its scented smoke curling like a pyre against <br />a cold blue sky now welcoming <br />a tidy offering up; <br />how clean, how sharp the autumn air <br /> <br />darker under the trees <br />the leaves still wet <br />limp and flat as hope defeated, <br />pressed together as <br />words not meant, or <br />something missed; <br />next year the leaves <br />will remember innocence, <br />the tree broader, eager, <br />brown as wisdom tipped with exploratory green. <br /> <br />gathering rosebuds with my rake <br />the season with its woodsmoke, evocative, <br />tempting to metaphor, hovering, <br />a garden of lost meaning; <br />no longer, this cooling autumn, a construction, <br />but speaking its own seriousness. <br /> <br />how clean, how sharp the autumn air <br />scented by surrender<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0195-autumn-gardener/
