Raking

Everything
red, yellow, orange
and purple bites
at the grassy edge and runs off
onto a white page sky by the wind's hand.
The colors smell like dirt
and earthworms when we collect them
into piles where they shiver, huddled
together, waiting for that chance
to break away from the ground's
oppressive hold, to pierce the air, to
puncture sunlight with serrated edges,
to avoid the inevitable brown death,
the seasonal genocide,
that awaits them
around the corner
of next week.