We each handle it our own way. He cranks up the leaf blower, hangs it over his shoulder and is off, roaring around the corners, across the patio, down the drive. So happy in his wall of sound to watch the leaves fly up into a twirling rain of fall colors. I prefer the broom. There’s a dance to it—the broom, the leaves and I, in gentle crackling swirls. I sweep through the spin of shifting browns and oranges, gentling them along with a whish and a whisper. It’s the secret language the leaves and I share.
November wind
rattles bare branches
Danse Macabre
roots are Western but she has lived in the South for 50 years, which helps shape her writing. Her poetry reflects her life-long interest in the large and small miracles of the world, from dust-bunnies to star-dust, from mouse holes to black holes. She finds pleasure in the creative challenge of translating those miracles into poetry.
