I used to sweep the floor,
outside our old front door.
The fallen leaves blew high,
with each sweep they would fly.

So young I loved the sound
of those bristles on the ground.
The rustling of natures debris,
not a speck would I let flee.

And as I grew I found
with each year more leaves came round
to tempt me to stay home
and sweep the floor alone.

Why do I find such solace?
With each push a certain calmness.
A distraction from past sadness,
or just a recreational madness?

So many changes in a year,
and with age I learnt to fear
of losing love and things so strange,
yet this routine remains the same.

From back when it was a chore,
though it was one I adored.
It now becomes my reason,
to be one with this season.

And so, I still like to sweep the floor,
outside of my new front door.
The fallen leaves blow high,
and with each sweep...
they fly.