Raking near the Great Works

October, and the leaves turned late but strong.

Rock maples and the reds, clear brazen, blaze

long-burning feats of sugar through our ways.

Their strident hold upon the back roads pulls

our morning drive, out to where Oak Woods Road

crosses the river that they call Great Works.

The nearby fields so rich it’s hard to breathe—

the hay treacly with auburn, grasses bronzed—

we stop before a red farmhouse, just shy

of where the river runs, where maple trees

have laid the front lawns ravished with their loss.

From Booker’s truck we pull out sacks and tools,

proceed to gather up the autumn’s spoils.

He holds each big bag open, and I rake

the broad red leaves together and inside.

The crop is so much greater than our work

could ever capture, even as we press

it in, right close, to fill October’s urge,

but we have cleared a windfall just the same:

A clarity, the season’s morning hues,

and our sweet chore have worked an art of fall.

As autumn and the Great Works trickle by,

we skim as much brimmed crimson as these few

stout bags will hold within, enough to lay

four inches of the fall upon his fields.

October's task has raked the colors high.

To turn 'em in, the soil to bed with yield,

is just as good as planting winter rye.