Gathering rosebuds with my rake; br the wooden tines scraping br over the gravel path br bringing a token of order br to the autumn of a life; br br rosebuds, nipped at the neck br by frost; dead leaves br curled like begging or covetous hands, br coloured like rich memories, red, orange, brown, br dry husks, spilt seed, br now crisp, eager to surrender to the fire, br its scented smoke curling like a pyre against br a cold blue sky now welcoming br a tidy offering up; br how clean, how sharp the autumn air br br darker under the trees br the leaves still wet br limp and flat as hope defeated, br pressed together as br words not meant, or br something missed; br next year the leaves br will remember innocence, br the tree broader, eager, br brown as wisdom tipped with exploratory green. br br gathering rosebuds with my rake br the season with its woodsmoke, evocative, br tempting to metaphor, hovering, br a garden of lost meaning; br no longer, this cooling autumn, a construction, br but speaking its own seriousness.