Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
this is a lovely poem, one for the autumn range......I used to love collecting leaves and I suppose one could look into this poem as collecting different aspects of our lives and filling a shed with it only to find we have next to nothing there anyway......A really thought provoking piece......
Sanity.
Adding your comment:
