The Autumn of Leaves

I’d rake autumn leaves on Barton Street
huge mounds when it was legal
To burn the red and yellow remnants
Of those hibernating trees
If I tried that nowadays
I’d be fined or even arrested
So huge black bags and bags of them
Rot for days and even weeks at the curb
Waiting for the pitying snow perhaps to cover them
If it may before they’re dumped into their cramped
Plastic smashed graves on which to toss more and more
A mass grave steeped with black anonymity and worms
From which not even spring weeds would flower
It’s far more fitting to set free their spirits as in life
Spiral incense ascending to the heavens
All earthly remains vanished memories behind
Dancing away they are set free again on the wind