my dad took to the yard
with a vengeance, tearing
into the bramble, imbued
with a great autumn anger
schhhtt, schhhhtt, schhting
across the sidewalk in a fury
not unlike Samuel hacking
Agag to pieces in the 6 pm
blush, still 70 out, too warm
for fall, I watched with a
heaviness, the pungent
smell of unearthed pine
and wet leaves leaving
a starchiness to the
air as he continued
to gather the brush in
bags, with my thoughts,
with my thoughts,
with my thoughts.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014
raked.