Yesterday, the thing to do
was to rake the golden leaves
from the grass and gather them
into huge untidy piles
for my husband to pull away.
Today the invitation is
to not rake the leaves.
To sit in the grass and feel myself
folded into an unmanaged beauty.
The invitation is to admire
their infinite shades of yellow
and brown—to notice
how some are speckled,
some torn, some brittle,
some still impossibly soft.
If some part of me
feels duty bound
to straighten the world,
she is not here now.
I want nothing but to sprawl
in disorder, to feel only delight
as the wind releases leaves
from the autumn trees,
want to relish how, with no politic,
the leaves dance to the ground.
Want to know myself as unruly,
one who finds joy in the rustling,
one who thrills in the glorious mess.