burning leaves

the afternoon
spent in the cold,
in the wind,
as the trees empty.
raking with gloved hands
what falls
at your feet,
tossing them in armfuls
into
a barrel of fire
and letting them burn,
letting the ashes
and smoke rise
and blow into the bluest
of skies,
warming your
hands over
the debris of branches,
timber
having fallen.
the churning,
of dead leaves,
no longer green.
this act brings
you a sweet
autumn peace.
a distant memory
that fills you with a joy,
only this season
can possess.