The rake is solid in your hand --
crevassed wood pole, splayed
fingers to catch the dead leaves,
its motion tugs your shoulder
in predictable rhythm -- pull,
lift, pull. Keep the motion; don't
stop to let thoughts pour in like
scalding water. Pull, lift, pull.
It's clear -- leaves in a pile -- no
controversy. Feel the smooth pole in
your grip, move the arms out, then
back. Don't stop. A pause is a door
to anything. Let the motion gather
the scattered leaves, scattered life.
Pull it into a neat pile, something known.
Move through the morning, find in simple
movement the path you seek.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.