3 result(s) for November Leaves Sweep Walk Poems.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
Beneath the Rake
The maple lets its gold go down,
and every path is paved in rust and flame.
I drag the rake through drifts of brown,
and scrape the lawn to bare, unspoken frame.
The leaves give way in crackling heaps,
and under them the earth lies cold and still,
a patient hush the wintering ground still keeps,
waiting for a warmth it cannot will.
So sweep the walk and let the season turn;
the bared earth holds its breath beneath the sky,
and in its quiet, roots begin to learn
the slow, unhurried art of waiting by.
November's Sweep
Wind swirls golden leaves down the lane,
A rustling dance of amber flame,
They tumble past the gate and fence,
As autumn spins its last defense.
I walk beneath the bare-limbed trees,
And listen to the crisp-cold breeze,
Each step a crunch, each sigh a sound,
Where November's hush wraps the ground.
The Broom's Last Round
An old broom leans against the shed,
its bristles worn, its handle bowed,
and still it rises, still it spreads
its patient sweep across the crowd
of crimson leaves that gather where
the garden path has been forgot,
the gravel buried, cold and bare,
unnoticed since the summer's hot.
It sweeps the walk the children left,
the gate that hangs on one hinge still,
and every stroke seems to be heft
of memory, of time and will.
The leaves rise up in rustling flight,
then settle soft in gentle heaps,
as if the year were gathered light
and autumn's grief lay in its sweeps.
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