Raking the Point by Rick Commons

We rake away the joy, away the sorrow —

A mid-November litany for leaves

That sounds an echo: winter comes tomorrow.

The oak and maple, birch and weeping willow

Look down upon our labors — what’s achieved?

We rake away the joy, away the sorrow.

Midair, aground, or resting in the barrow,

The fallen are not lost. We must not grieve.

But still an echo: winter comes tomorrow.

The sun’s gone silver as a trout in shadow,

Its shimmer more remembered than perceived.

We rake away the joy, away the sorrow.

The generations loved this land we borrow

And showed us how to live, if not believe.

They are an echo: winter comes tomorrow.

The water, mountains, heavens: do they follow

How years unravel here, and how they weave?

We rake away the joy, away the sorrow —

Too soon the echo: winter comes tomorrow.