by Gideon Burton
Each year the tilting planet spills the seasons:
the colored breezes run in altered hues;
the oceans slosh into September's reasons,
persuasive as the aspen trees' chartreuse.
Some years my sons and I have piled our leaves
to mounds of paper florins, rich with must.
Our little dogs we've tossed with football ease
upon this Autumn bedding (gently thrust).
They yapped their giggling, seemed to ask for more,
but we had thrown ourselves and scattered all.
How elegant the yard, its leafy floor
abused when raking ends our playful brawl.
Turn earth, turn time, refreeze and thaw again;
the seasons stay that wisely we have spent.
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