Collected, raked to piles
Browned leaves, each a memory
Of a summer's sun-drenched day.
Now even most pious prayer
Unable to revive once emerald glory.

Birds that danced and sung among
The shady canopy
Have moved on, and I wonder
If they still remember
These leaves they once claimed.

Or have fresh foliage, warmer days
Resplendent sweet fruits to savor
Washed them clean again  
To bear from here no more mark
Than a season's passing?

Left to rest where it has fallen
The mass will choke the grass beneath.
So, having paused to recall past splendor,
Bent back resumes Autumn's labor  -
Collect and rake to piles.