And in the fall we go raking,
bamboo-toothed tools ripping up the dry grass,
sweeping leaves that crackle when dry –
black spots amongst the hues of red and yellow,
the camouflage of New England hills and dales
rustling under feet.
And in the fall we go burning,
the pits and chimneys
turning seeds, water, earth
into heat, soot, blowing ash.
And in the fall we go voting,
polling, polling, polling.
The voices barking, mad sound clips,
a cacophony of unknown names on yard signs,
littered yards, placards
mixed with yellowing grass.
And in the fall we go haunting,
faces peering out of windows,
the antique houses, the coughing in the breeze,
a cancelled Halloween,
Two hundred thousand ghosts among us
And in the fall we go wilding,
the yard burning, burning, burning.
The hills echoing, the shouting, the burning,
the camouflage in New England hills.
Black spots, mixed with hues of red,
the ground staining, burning, dying.