I’ve been a rake
Forcing fallen leaves into crisp piles
Mounds of gold and rust
Scooped into brown bags and left beside autumn’s curbs.
No amount of diligence
Insures the capitulation of every frond
Some will take flight
In frantic whorls, escaping thus from gravity’s laws.
As an implement of control
My sense of failure knows no limits
In my future guise
I will cling to the oak tree immune to