The Rake

In the Fall of my parenthood,

I will go outdoors with my kids

to get on tasks that nature ever cycles into need.

The kids will run ahead.

I’ll trail behind,

and while grasping at their echoes

in the misty rattle of autumn’s bones,

I will halt and gasp

when I see

the three tidy leaf piles.

I will cry out to my kids

to come and jump in,

but remember

that they can’t hear me,

that they are too old,

that they made the mounds

by themselves, for themselves,

drawing of the ethic I taught them,

and left behind the rake.

This will happen in the Fall.

This future itch reaches back to scratch me like a memory.

It will happen,

but I cannot dwell on it,

because the giggling babies are calling me.

I’m needed in the play room.